


Obliviate

by professortoebeans



Series: Mischief Managed Series [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Wolfstar - Harry Potter
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Remus Lupin, Boys In Love, Canon Gay Character, Character Death, Character Development, Dadfoot, Declarations Of Love, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, First Love, Gay, Gay Bar, Gay Sirius Black, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Internalized Homophobia, Intimacy, Marauders, Marauders Friendship (Harry Potter), Minor Character Death, Multi, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-Sirius Black in Azkaban, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pragmatic Idealism, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Protective Remus Lupin, Redemption, Remus Lupin & Lily Evans Potter Friendship, Remus Lupin Needs a Hug, Rise of Voldemort, Sad Sirius Black, Second War with Voldemort, Secret Marriage, Sexual Tension, Sirius Black & James Potter Friendship, Sirius Black Free from Azkaban, Sirius Black Lives, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin Raise Harry Potter, Sirius Black as Padfoot, Sirius Black's Flying Motorbike, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Starting Over, The Golden Trio, Trauma, Unintentional Redemption, Werewolf Remus Lupin, Werewolves, moomy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:27:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 47,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23416714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortoebeans/pseuds/professortoebeans
Summary: So, his father had been right: love truly wasn't all that complicated in the grand scheme of things. His heart sought after a charming, yet vulgar, somewhat poncey boy with eyes he'll never forget. It didn't get what it wanted, and it's destroying him from the inside out. Memories from the years are jumbled in his mind and the voices of those lost along the way muddying the waters.All he can manage, with what little is left of Remus Lupin, is the utterance:Ｏｂｌｉｖｉａｔｅ.©badnewsbears19 2020Part two of the Mischief Managed Series;𝘾𝘼𝙉 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙉𝙊𝙏 𝙎𝙐𝙂𝙂𝙀𝙎𝙏𝙀𝘿 𝙏𝙊 𝘽𝙀 read as a stand-alone novel. The story is officially AU, as stated in the first installment.Please read the Disclaimer for trigger warnings and other important information.Wolfstar/Golden Trio Erabegan: 3/31/2019completed: TBD
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Viktor Krum, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Regulus Black & Sirius Black, Regulus Black/James Potter, Regulus Black/Original Female Character(s), Remus Lupin/Original Female Character(s), Sirius Black & Remus Lupin & Peter Pettigrew & James Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Series: Mischief Managed Series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594513
Comments: 66
Kudos: 102





	1. Disclaimer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bitty_bel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitty_bel/gifts), [Vallier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vallier/gifts), [themapneverlies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themapneverlies/gifts).



> PLEASE AT LEAST READ THE FIRST TRIGGER WARNING; IT IS CRUCIAL BEFORE YOU CONTINUE. 

I SOLEMNLY SWEAR THAT I AM UP TO NO GOOD.

𝓜𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓻. 𝓟𝓻𝓸𝓯𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓸𝓻𝓣𝓸𝓮𝓑𝓮𝓪𝓷𝓼 𝓲𝓼 𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓭 𝓽𝓸 𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓮𝓷𝓽:

Ｏｂｌｉｖｉａｔｅ.

This book contains material protected by the International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any form in any shape or fashion, electronically or manually. If you try, I swear on all that's Holy I'll find you and rip the shingles off your roof. All of that is including photocopying, recording, copying and pasting, or by any information storage/retrieval system, without my expressed consent.

All rights go toward J.K. Rowling, despite her being a complete and utter TERF.

Welcome back, or welcome to, the second installment of the Mischief Managed series. I won't harp on how important it is to maintain our integrity when reading and writing books, especially fanfiction. It falls prey to plagiarism and stealing so often; writers deserve to receive credit for the things they spend days, months, years on! All I ask is that you ask for permission when creating anything off of this plot or book in general. Thank you! 

In general, don't copy my:

1) Plotline

3 ) If you're going to quote me, cite me (we're taking it back to high school beans of all sizes)

**Content Warnings:**

**1) Panic Attacks/Nightmare Sequences -** I'm putting this one first because it is of the utmost importance to me. War and trauma - traumas of all types and severity - leave marks on us all that we can't always undo. It can remain with us for the rest of our lives if not taken care of properly. I say this because I am going to show you the consequences of war. If you get triggered easily, I ask you to skip over all chapters with a star symbol in the chapter name (No Time to Die☆). Your comfort is important to me. Please, do not hesitate to private message me if the scenes get too intense. I mean it.

 **2) Foul Language -** If you're a returning member, you know... you know Remus and Sirius swear like sailors. We're all adults, or you're grown enough to be reading a book, so if you don't like foul language, tough tits. 3) Violence/Major Character Death - Once again, if you are here from Mischief Managed you'll know that I don't hold back. There will be people dying. I was nice last time. This time, important people will be at high risk. I love you all, but as my saying goes: It must be done.

 **4) LGBTQ+ / Sexual Content** \- I think the main reason the last book didn't have a ton of sexual content was because they were so young. Don't get me wrong; 18-year-olds have sex. All the time. But it just wasn't my style. All that to say, it might be a little different this time in terms of smut. For some of you, that's wonderful. Others don't care. We'll see where this goes, honestly. As for LGBTQ+ content... I don't think you'd be here if you were uncomfortable with it. It's literally about two doods being in love.. AND MORE! 

**5) Alcohol/Drug Use -** I mean... they're big beans now. So. They might dabble in big bean things? I don't know. 

Moving on.

Cast List

 **Jude Law** as _[Remus Lupin](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/05/00/44/05004428ed84e8219fd35bff12b1e24b.jpg)_

 **Johnny Depp** as _[Sirius Black](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/b3/e0/f4/b3e0f4af7f3ca96ae0c3d4b398082a84.jpg)_

 **Daniel Radcliffe** as _[Harry Potter](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/ef/ab/0d/efab0dec4c3a11db8e7120ac00f45979.jpg)_

 **Kit Harrington** as _[James Potter](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/e0/64/68/e06468ea4f01d49aca4322d28ea924eb.jpg)_

 **Eleanor Tomlinson** as _[Lily Evans-Potter](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/9c/9c/8f/9c9c8f44ec3723e66022c008dc6cdb0d.jpg)_

 **Rupert Grint** as _[Ronald Weasley](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/9f/0e/c2/9f0ec2ffade5c8a729104bbcb00d1aa5.jpg)_

 **Emma Watson** as _[Hermione Granger](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/1d/e9/37/1de937bd0734a6ce4f34b8822a7fd13f.jpg)_

 **Alex Storm** as _[Regulus Black](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/82/29/26/8229265890216cd6905667f78fc03eb6.jpg)_

 **Ralph Fiennes** as _[Lord Voldemort](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/9a/2d/47/9a2d4700df8a9e657d65b3967f430fa2.jpg)_

 **Ástrid Bergés-Frisbey** as _[Valentina Bonneville](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/66/24/0b/66240bdd69ce0adfe84c4bd2b741cdd2.jpg)_

 **Tom Felton** as _[Draco Malfoy](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/65/e5/32/65e532ad02271b2d1891e9c785730881.jpg)_

 **Jasson Issacs** as _[Lucius Malfoy](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/29/b7/c1/29b7c1ad91f3f8d70a6f80bf6fe7d2b1.jpg)_

 **Nicole Kidman** as _[Narcissa Malfoy](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/c7/40/e6/c740e6e06c40a367d79534ee5276c32e.jpg)_

 **Sir Michael Gambon** as _[Albus Dumbledore](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/c6/5e/21/c65e216549505247e75cfe3b9a62082a.jpg)_

 **Adam Driver** as _[Professor Severus Snape](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/89/35/8a/89358a0219c48407a3b8a8783e0eddb5.jpg)_

**Dane Dehaan** as _[Peter Pettigrew](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/5d/db/d1/5ddbd1417e6272623bca28413c8aec3b.jpg)_

**Taylor Kitsch** as _[Frank Longbottom](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/ca/54/b0/ca54b02e556674b80e706bfc30140ed4.jpg)_

**Blake Lively** as _[Alice Longbottom](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/cf/2a/72/cf2a727ad81669fe94db1965f4abcb5c.jpg)_

**Brendan Gleeson** as _[Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/3c/c4/7b/3cc47b5f500c62b194e649fe68b9411b.jpg)_

****

(If there are other cast members, they will be added later, such as installments to the Golden Trio, etc.)

If you are returning, I hope you are prepared for what's in store, if not, the prologue will serve as a small chapter to catch you up on what you've missed.

I'm excited, so I'll shut up. 

_I present to you the final installment of the MM Series:_

Ｏｂｌｉｖｉａｔｅ.


	2. Refresher.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"the road that leads you to yourself will never be easy; it should never be easy."_
> 
> _-via_ Parth

Remus John Lupin was born to a small family in the secluded town of Clovelly in 1965 to Hope, a Muggle accountant, and Lyall, an Auror. His childhood was full of stuffed toys and trips into London with Hope; his father taught him how to ride bikes and swim. The children in the neighborhood enjoyed spending their weekends with Remus; he had very long arms and could reach high into the trees to retrieve lost frisbees and boomerangs. They climbed trees together and visited the old candy shop down the way in the mornings. He lived a happy life – one full of love and affection, friends and comfort.

Sirius Orion Black was born to a wealthy, aristocratic family in the middle of London to Walburga and Orion. His mother disliked the boy; he caused trouble from a young age. Sirius never listened to her instructions, choosing to rebel instead of obeying. His childhood was filled with ice baths and scraped knees, though not from playing or climbing trees. Instead, his mother made sure to punish him; perhaps he'd learn that way. Sirius didn't leave the house for anything, spending most of his time with the golden son – Regulus. He didn't mind, however. It was better than nothing. He lived a lonely life – one full of isolation and jealousy, no mother nor father.

Remus was subject to an attack just before his birthday. He'd been getting up to use the restroom; he had the bladder of a racehorse, according to his father. It had been so sudden, so hostile. His memory refused to relive the tale entirely. Some moments stuck out like a jagged nail on a staircase – the sensation of hot pokers rearing down his spine, the wailing of his mother as she tried to stop the bleeding, his father arguing with healers. From then on, Remus John Lupin was no longer a boy. He was a werewolf.

Sirius loved to play pranks on their house-elf in his youth; Kreacher was an easy target. He was small and skinny with big, bulging eyes the size of tennis balls. That didn't mean he could see well. He was as old as Walburga, and Walburga was ancient. One day, he decided to play a nasty little joke on the poor elf, nearly blinding him with a wild Doxy. Sirius had never seen his mother so angry before; he'd gotten the worst punishment to date that evening, the soles of his feet sore for months. From then on, Sirius Orion Black was no longer her son. He was a mistake.

R.J.L. boarded the Hogwarts express with the hopes that he'd finally make new friends. His family had been forced to move out of Clovelly after the "accident," leaving behind everyone they knew in the blink of an eye. Until his eleventh birthday, he'd no hope that he'd ever meet another child his age, let alone someone who could manage to look beyond the scars littering his skin. When all hope was lost, and nothing but embarrassment had seeped into his bones, three boys entered his compartment; all of them were skeptical of him, intimidated by his size and appearance. But they came around. One by one. Some more slowly than others. But… they came around.

Sirius Black, from the Ancient and Noble House of Black, respectively, boarded the Hogwarts express with little compassion from Walburga. There were simple instructions: no mingling with blood traitors or Muggle-borns alike, come home with adequate marks, and behave, or else. Sirius knew what the "or else" had been, and decided to take his mother's word with a grain of salt. He then met James Potter, from the infamous Muggle breeding family who'd never owned a brush in their lifetime, and chose to cling to him; James loved pranks, as did Sirius. They even pulled along a chubby little blonde with a stutter. Not to mention the great brute asleep in the corner. Yes, he was odd, but odd was alright. For the time being, of course.

Remus met a young girl at the sorting ceremony, a young Hufflepuff by the name of Julienne Jerome, with soft eyes and kind words. Despite making a bit of conversation on the train, he didn't exactly feel a part of the group of boys he'd met. They were all bold and daring, knew tons about the wizarding world – far more than Remus had ever known. Well, Peter was an exception, but his lack of knowledge acted as comedic relief. Remus felt like the black sheep – too large and too stupid to fit right in. He was sorted into Gryffindor, against his bloody wishes, and was reminded not to judge a book before even starting it.

Sirius was sorted into Gryffindor just as he'd wanted to be, much to his mother's disapproval. But none of that mattered! He'd made two of the greatest friends, even if one of them was a bit on the slow side. The apprehension and angst for his return to Grimmauld Place would come later in the year, closer to the shadow of punishment. Even the strange boy from the train – Remus – had been sorted into his house, in his same dormitory. However, as Sirius watched from the other end of the table, Remus didn't seem to be too excited about his placement as he ate alone.

For their first year, Remus and Sirius were worlds apart. James and Peter took up most of Sirius' time; they spent their hours pulling pranks on opposing houses and the snotty Prefect, Ivan Strix. Every now and then, they'd cross paths on their way to class. Remus was typically alone or accompanied by a little girl named Jasmine or something else, and it annoyed Sirius to no end. What had been wrong with the boys? Did they smell? Did their breath stink? Sirius vowed to befriend Remus Lupin if it was the last thing he did. Even if James didn't particularly agree.

Remus was shocked, to say the least, that his second year included much more time with the infamous Sirius Black. Why he would make any time to spend with him, Remus never knew. He was lanky and awkward, constantly tripping over his feet or swallowing a strand of hair as he spoke, while Remus was all grace and glamor. Whatever the reason had been, it brought a welcomed change of pace to Remus' life; Sirius had been the first person to know how if condition outside of the family, one of the only people to show him kindness after a transformation. Things would never be the same between them.

James eventually came around Remus with time and effort; they really weren't so unalike as they'd thought before. By the time their third year ended, all three of the boys had known of Remus' Lycanthropy and decided it didn't change their opinion of him. They were open-minded enough to realize that Remus and the wolf were separate, not one; this was something most could not do. Their plan to become animagi commenced and Remus had never felt more loved.

Things were changing in Sirius' heart; he could just feel it. All of the boys around them were ogling at girls and women. James had gifted him "Playboy" posters – some Muggle magazine apparently, and things of this sort with the thought Sirius enjoyed gawking at them. Well, he didn't. He only charmed them to the wall permanently to spite his mother. It had worked. No, he spent his time with Remus mostly, talking about the things that seemed to matter at the time – school and careers, the hopes to travel the world together like some dynamic duo. He learned Remus' favorite color had been purple, but not the strong kind, and finally figured out his favorite brand of chocolate. Things were changing in Sirius' heart. He just knew it.

The same went for Remus. The failed attempt at a relationship with Julienne had provoked thoughts of uncertainty and shame within him. Perhaps he was a ponce? What would the others think of him? Why was it only Sirius that pulled on his heartstrings, or Ivan Strix – the head boy Sirius despised. What was wrong with him? He hated himself for his heart swaying differently – hated it for following the path seemingly less followed. The Wolf provoked him those days, daring him to let his thoughts wander to pastures greener. Remus denied himself the pleasure.

It went on like this for months, both boys dancing around their own truths: they liked each other. No, they were fond of each other. No, they had unspoken feelings for one another but were far too afraid of what they'd say to tell each other. So they edged around one another, ignoring and avoiding as one does when they can't bear the sight of another until finally, it became too much. Sirius felt selfish in wanting Remus to himself; it was true that the world deserved someone so tender and kind. Then again, Remus was the first tender and kind thing to enter Sirius' life. He'd never had someone so gentle with his palms, who rubbed the soreness in his feet or carded their fingers through his hair.

He'd never had someone to care for him with unadulterated affection – to truly see him for who he was.

And Remus – he'd never had someone to see beyond the abrasions and discoloration covering his skin. To cradle him after transformations without a care in the world about the putrid odors or blood-covered rags draped over him. He'd never known someone to listen so intensely to his tangents about books and poems and art – never had someone to talk to the way Sirius talked to him.

It was as if they were made for one another. What they had – the bond they shared – was given only once in life.

And with all things such as this, as so many people do, it was taken for granted.

The war weighed heavily on all of them; James, Sirius, Peter, and Remus all faced personal and shared challenges. They found that hardships came more frequently the older they became. Despite moving out of his childhood home, the ghosts of his past seemed to haunt Sirius for years to come. He attended therapy at the request of his new family – the Potter's. For a time, it felt as though, perhaps, this war was manageable – it's consequences not so dire.

Yet, people died. Loved ones were lost. Death was sparse in the beginning, and the Marauders were able to evade trouble just as well as they did in school. Attackers were on the rise; Voldemort was gaining traction in Britain. To combat this, the Marauders joined a force of wizards – young and old – known as the Order of the Phoenix. They won battle after battle, held back Voldemort's forces for a few years.

But the tables were turned eventually.

There was a leak in the Order; someone was slipping information to the opposition. Times and places of meetings, patrol locations, and gatherings were being targeted. The blame seemed to shift on the only plausible traitor – Remus Lupin. He was kind and gentle, smart and brilliant. Nevertheless, he was a Werewolf. Secrecy and suspicion plagued the Order; some were in favor of Remus' departure while others fought to prove his innocence.

However, bigger storms loomed on the horizon.

It began with a young girl – Julienne Jerome – and her family. They mingled with Muggles, and their lives were lost because of it. They were found slaughtered in their own home; Remus' first friend was the only survivor for a short while. James, Lily, and Sirius were present for her death and swore to keep it hidden from Remus until the time was right.

There's never a "right" time to reveal the loss of a loved one. And, as it always ends like so, the truth was revealed, fracturing the Order into bits and pieces. Those who'd suspected Remus were glad to see him go; his absence meant the seal of the leak and the cessation of shared information. His friends were devastated; Sirius was lost.

They were most vulnerable when they were apart; both fell prey to their own imaginations.

Things were so different from their school years. They walked around, so oblivious to the outer world and those who sought to ruin them that they'd never thought things would end up like this. They were supposed to be with each other – forever – living across the hall from the smitten James and Lily. There would've been morning brunches and walks in the park, late nights with hot chocolate and films.

Life wouldn't have it that way.

By the end of their time together, Remus and Sirius were back in their respective places – worlds apart. They returned to their dances of avoidance, the awkward silences, and meaningless stares. It was cold and stiff around them, like a winter morning in Wales, and there wasn't a thing they could do about it.

Yet, even so, seeing Sirius hauled away by Aurors, after watching so many of his friends die, broke something in Remus.

Julienne, Benjy, Marlene, Fabian and Gideon, Caradoc, Elphias – all lost in the name of Voldemort's cause.

Now, it was Sirius' time to go.

But damn it. Remus wasn't ready to let go. Not yet. He wanted to try it all over again – love Sirius a little more, smile more often and take him up on those morning brunches he always blew off. If there'd been a button to press – wherever it had been in this world – Remus would've fought till his dying breath to push it if it just gave him another chance to be the man that Sirius needed.

Now it was too late. You couldn't love somebody from a world away, nor could you from the other side of a prison cell.

"Love isn't all that complicated," Lyall had once told him. "It either gets what it wants or destroys you."

That April night of 1980 was the beginning of his slow turmoil – the beginning of the end for Remus Lupin.


	3. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"and I miss you so very much in this life that I know I'll see you again in the next one."  
>  -via_ Ben Maxfield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I **HIGHLY, HIGHLY, HIGHLY,** recommend you go back and read the first installment of this series ( _Mischief Managed_ ) if you have not already, as most of this will not make a lick of sense to you for the next few chapters.
> 
> Also, there was a nasty little troll in the reviews early. erase my brains, I appreciate your criticisms for this work. I decided to delete the original prologue for your viewing needs. (Note the sarcasm). However, next time, please try to be a bit nicer. Flaming a young author is a terrible way to spend your evenings and doesn't motivate me to become any better. Lucky for you, I took your word for it and rewrote it! Just for you : )
> 
> Be respectful, everyone.

_Location: Undisclosed, April 1980_

The heat from the lights above was burning through Remus' clothes; sweat dripped down the creases of his back. His hair was damp against his forehead – a mixture of sweat and blood had hardened on his eyebrow. It wasn't his blood, not all of it at least. Despite all this, he felt cold. Freezing, in fact. His leg bounced and his teeth chattered fiercely, but he knew it wasn't the temperature getting to him

Images of Marlene – there one moment, then all over the flat the next – drippled into the forefront of his mind; she didn't even have time to scream. Maybe, he thought, it was better that way? She went quickly. Fabian, on the other hand, died slowly in agony; even hours later, in the early hours of the morning, he could hear him wailing. His voice was faint, muted over the static ringing in his ears.

Don't think about it, the Wolf ordered.

He was nearing a transformation; with his body under such stress and so little of his mind focusing on this reality, the Wolf had a clear opening to taunt him. It took this opportunity, leering about the events that transpired.

It was all Remus' fault. He should've told the Order about Peter when he had the chance – in the very beginning. Now Sirius was locked up somewhere in the Ministry before they could transfer him somewhere else; Remus prayed to God it wasn't Azkaban, but the chances were likely.

Those who'd survived the attack, the assault at Malfoy Manor included, had been gathered by the wizarding police for questioning; it had been Remus with the questions, though. Question about his friends' wellbeing, about Sirius' whereabouts, when he'd be able to visit the lot of them.

The door swung open behind him, a draft blowing in from the hallway. He shivered lightly, bracing himself for what was to come.

The Ministry knew of his Lycanthropy; he was on the official registry. No doubt, he'd be interrogated as such – as a threat. It wouldn't be a pleasant encounter with the official, Remus just knew it. Still, he'd offer as much information as he could to help. If giving up the details of the Order meant seeing Sirius to freedom and Pettigrew behind bars, he'd divulge in a heartbeat.

A man, no older than thirty, sat down before him. He was lean and tan, his hair slicked back tightly to reveal a handsome face. His eyes, a sharp blue, bore into Remus' figure; if looks could kill, he'd be dead. There was no pity in his eyes nor tenderness. He was all business, so it seemed, and his work would include making this interview hell for Remus. Silence stretched on for what felt like minutes, uncomfortable and thick. Remus squirmed in his chair; a harsh shriek sounded as the other Aurors locked the door from the outside.

"How are you, Mr. Lupin," the man finally asked.

Remus, doing what he did best, avoided eye contact as he spoke, "Purely golden, thank you."

The man chortled, his laugh low and sarcastic at best. He wasn't amused; Remus winced at his own mouth.

"My name is Neil Varga, I'll be handling your case," he explained.

"It's a pleasure," Remus said.

"So it would seem," Neil said, a hint of disdain in his words. They were meant to be sharp – to cut. "How about you start from the beginning, hm?"

Remus stared at the table before him. Neil had brought in a pen and a notepad, some notes already jotted down. He could make out the basics of his own life – where he'd lived, where he worked, who he mingled with. Neil had done his research, so why did Remus need to relive that horrid night?

"I," he stuttered, "I don't even know where to begin."

Neil, looking unsympathetic as ever, scowled harshly. It was clear there was no time for the melodramatics; he needed information, and he needed it quickly. Still, Remus found that the memories refused to leave the back of his throat; he was afraid of what he'd seen.

"Why don't you start with the spring of 1977."

•─────⋅ ⋅─────•

"Well," James sighed, "we'd gone t-to the cinema in London. You know, the one on the corner of Heartsfield and Lancaster? The big one?"

Neil was busy writing down information, but granted the man a soft, "Mhm."

James picked underneath the nail, removing excess dirt. He didn't really need to do that, but at least it distracted him from the events of that night.

"It was me, Remus, Sirius, and Peter," James said. "We'd seen this movie called –"

"For now, Mr. Potter, let's stick to the important details," Neil snapped. "Details about the attack."

"Oh," James whispered.

He hadn't thought about that in years; it seemed like a distant lighthouse miles away from the port. Every now and then, the light would burn through the fog – his memories hashing out vividly in his sleep. However, he'd done a good enough job of erasing that night for his own good. There was no need to think of it until that night. Even then, he didn't see its importance.

"We were on our way back to a flat my parents own," James continued. "And then we walked into the attack. Dementors, I mean, they were everywhere. We couldn't get out. They were attacking everyone – even little children."

Neil gave James a once over, "They aren't particularly picky about whom they choose to assault."

"Right."

"When did the Death Eaters arrive," Neil asked, crossing his legs elegantly.

He reminded James a bit of Sirius when he did that.

Sirius.

James hadn't meant for it to happen that way. He only wanted to disarm Sirius, not injure him. But he was attacking Mrs. Malfoy – however guilty she might have been in hiding Peter! She was pregnant, damn it. What if the roles had been reversed? What if it had been Lily under attack? James wouldn't have been able to live with himself knowing that his wife and unborn child were put through such turmoil, and no matter how horrible Narcissa had been to his brother, he couldn't bear to watch her die just because Sirius was having a tantrum.

"A few minutes later," James muttered. "It was mainly Bellatrix, though."

"Bellatrix Black-Lestrange?"

"Yeah, her," James nodded.

"Isn't she Sirius Black's cousin," Neil suggested.

James shrugged, "He doesn't really consider the Blacks his family anymore. Minus his little brother, Regulus."

Regulus had been apprehended by the Ministry as James apparated to Malfoy Manor. For the time being, he was being treated once again by the Healers at St. Mungo's. It was for the best he spent his time there; James couldn't begin to imagine the pain he'd been in.

"What happened next?"

•─────⋅ ⋅─────•

"Bellatrix and Sirius began dueling," Remus said. "My father, Lyall Lupin, and the Potter's were helping vacate the square before anyone else got hurt. Alastor Moody was there as well."

Neil was scribbling vigorously, every word coming out of Remus' mouth recorded on the paper. Remus wondered why he simply didn't charm the quill-like every other person in the Ministry to take notes for him but considered it unwise to taunt the officer in question. Things were bad enough as it was; his smart mouth didn't need to make it any worse.

"Don't wait for any affirmations from me," Neil explained. "I'll prompt you when needed. Please, continue."

Remus didn't really want to continue, though he did. For Sirius.

"Bellatrix cast a fire spell," Remus said. "Everything was going to shit, really. People were getting hit by miscast spells, the Dementors were still running wild, and Sirius was going to get hit with a blasting curse, so I jumped in the way."

Neil set down his quill, leaning over on the metal table with inquisitive eyes. Remus didn't appreciate the way he stared down his nose as if he were doubting every word leaving the tip of his tongue. It reminded him too much of his father; it felt scrutinizing and harsh. Perhaps that was the goal?

"Sirius Black tends to cause trouble wherever he goes, doesn't he," Neil asked, though it sounded more like a statement than anything.

•─────⋅ ⋅─────•

"I mean, boys will be boys," Lily Potter shook her head wildly, affronted that this man – whatever his name had been – would make such an accusation. "If anything, the rest of us get into trouble!"

Neil smirked, writing a few things down on that bloody notepad he deemed so important. Lily was growing antsy. This man liked to make too many assumptions under the veil of interrogative questions; this was the Ministry's tactic. They were trying to catch her in a faulty statement to convict Sirius of whatever the hell he'd done. She wouldn't crack. Not for the Minister for Magic or this bumbling oaf who thought he was so tough.

"Don't mistake me, Mr. ?"

"Varga."

"Mr. Varga," Lily repeated. "We've all done our share of marauding in our youth, but our adulthood has been dedicated to the Order. Whatever you're implying about Sirius is accusatory, and, I must say, rather foolish of you when you know nothing of his character."

Lily crossed her arms, her rounded belly becoming a shelf for them. The little one was kicking, and while she'd usually show a bit of compassion for her unborn child, it might have been a sight of weakness to this stupid man. Who did he think he was drawing all these conclusions about her friends?

Sirius, while being as dense as a rock somedays, was kind. He wouldn't dare hurt anyone, let alone his friends. Of course, he was most definitely a brat and could throw the most annoying tantrums, Lily refused to believe that he would betray them all. It just didn't make any sense!

Why would he go behind James' back? They were like brothers. No, they were brothers. Their relationship was just as closely knit as hers with James. Not to mention that Sirius would happily jump in front of a train if it meant saving the skin on Remus' back. They were close and there was too much trust and history to simply toss in the bin after a clusterfuck.

"I mean no disrespect, Mrs. Potter, but I know quite a bit about Sirius' character," Varga snickered. "I'm very familiar with his school records."

Lily glowered, "Sirius three years ago is a different boy than the man he's become. You're an idiot if you use his academic track record to judge him now."

The smile faded from Neil's face, a stoic expression firmly in place.

"Then why don't you tell me about your friend, Sirius Black."

•─────⋅ ⋅─────•

"He's my brother," James deadpanned. "I've known him for ten years, for Christ's sake. He's got a bit of a bratty problem, but that just comes from his birth family's poor parenting skills."

Sirius didn't often talk about his time at Grimmauld Place. James knew it had been – what was the word Slade had used? Traumatic. Walburga and Orion were far from pleasant to James; it could only be assumed that they were even worse to their son. Sirius had scars to prove this; the soles of his feet were riddled with abrasions and discoloration, his hands as well. Not to mention the way he grimaced every time the topic of his mother came about. There was no discussion about it; Sirius was nothing like his own family.

"But you've got to admit," Neil leaned back, "his family's track record isn't the brightest."

"First of all," James growled, "the only thing I'll admit is that Sirius is nothing like his family. Nothing like them at all. He despises Voldemort and his cause. It's taken nearly everything from him."

"Everything except for Remus, though," Neil pointed out.

•─────⋅ ⋅─────•

Remus bristled under Neil's gaze. The direction of the conversation was turning in a direction Remus didn't want it to. He knew that trying to redirect it to the important things – things like Peter Pettigrew's betrayal – seemed futile. Every time Remus so much as tried to ask a question about anything else at all, Neil would simply repeat himself till Remus answered.

"I'll stand with Sirius through anything," he quipped. "He's my family."

Neil stood then, his chair's legs squealing against the concrete floor; Remus scowled. Neil prowled the room, loosening his suspenders and fiddling with the cuffs of his button-up. He was clean and put together, a real shiner on another occasion. However, the disapproval in his eyes, the judgment, made Remus' skin crawl.

"I don't think family goes out to homosexual clubs together," he commented off-handedly. "But that's none of my business."

Remus felt something ugly rearing its head in his stomach, his final nerve ready to be plucked at another nasty comment as this. He might have been a Werewolf, he might have worked in a Muggle shop, and he might have been in a relationship with the man in question (at one point), but this berk didn't have any bloody right to judge him for it! He knew nothing about Sirius and nothing about him.

If only he had the courage to say it out loud. Instead, he allowed his nostrils to flare, using his breathing technique to calm himself.

"No," he hissed. "It isn't."

"I just find it interesting that the two of you have been nearly inseparable for years," Neil sighed.

"We've been separated for months now," Remus scoffed. "You must not be doing your homework."

This man was truly an idiot. Remus didn't like to think he hated anyone – anyone besides Voldemort and his cronies, but he was justified in that sense. Yet, this man who thought so highly of himself was really starting to irk Remus to the point of no return. It didn't help he'd already been agitated just before the full moon. Anything rubbed him the wrong way around that time; it just so happened that Neil Varga was an even worse catalyst.

"Well, then why don't you explain for me, Mr. Lupin," Neil suggested.

Remus crossed his arms, "So you can pin him for a crime he didn't commit? Kiss my arse."

Neil glowered, slamming his hands on the table; his face was within inches of Sirius, the smell of cigarettes and mint rolling onto Remus. He'd made him angry, no doubt.

"He fits the bill!"

•─────⋅ ⋅─────•

Lily sneered. What did he know? A few facts from his school records and the rundown of his relationship with Remus? It'd only been a few hours; that wasn't enough time for a full investigation. Whatever he knew, it was limited. His only hope would be for one of the survivors to crack under his pitiful pressure tactics.

Well, Lily was a hormonal, hungry pregnant woman with nerves of steel. Mad-Eye Moody had taught her well enough to sense when a man is bluffing – and this investigator wreaked of arrogance.

"If you want to have a pissing match about our knowledge of Sirius, go find someone else, because it won't be me who gives you what you want," she said, tone low and dangerous. "Whoever you ask, you're not going to find what you want."

•─────⋅ ⋅─────•

"Whatever you think you know," James said, "it isn't true."

•─────⋅ ⋅─────•

"Your take on Sirius is misconstrued and faulty," Remus stated. "You'll have better luck with Pettigrew if you're looking to solve your little 'mystery', Mr. Varga."


	4. Running

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Et tu es mon livre sanctifié. Mon poéme."_
> 
> _**And you are my sacred book. My poem.**  
>  -via_ Umar Timol, from "Blood," translated by Susan Wicks.

_London, May 1980_

Remus followed the Ministry official through a series of corridors and elevator shafts, wand in his pocket and folder in hands. Dumbledore wasn't too far behind, his eyes cast every which way as he took in the surroundings. It wasn't as if the old man had never seen the Ministry; it was just much easier avoiding eye contact with a livid Remus Lupin and the uncomfortable new hire, Janine.

There'd been a row, of course, when deciding who would be visiting Sirius that day. With Lily being so close to her due date, she was unable to fill in for Fleamont who'd been out sick for weeks. James wanted desperately to come, but with the birth of the baby nearby, Lily refused to allow him more than ten feet away. That's when the arguing started, forcing Remus to shuffle in and out of his apartment until he found suitable attire and the case file each of them received in April. He'd left around eleven, leaving Lily hollering at the top of her lungs about their carelessness.

Remus didn't mind being reckless for the right people.

Remus did want to see Sirius. Yes, yes, he wanted to see him with every bone in his body. However, the Ministry had rules: no touching, whispering, hugging, kissing, or anything that might lead to some sort of illegal exchange. Remus was allowed only his folder and a pen; his wand would be confiscated at the entrance to the policing level – two stories below their current location. It was difficult enough having to remain five feet apart from him. If there'd been anything he needed in the world, it was a hug from Padfoot.

"I must warn you," Janine sighed, "he's been a bit agitated these past few weeks."

Remus scowled, "You've postponed his trial date for another two months. How would you feel?"

"I don't make the rules, Mr. Lupin," she crooned, pausing for only a moment to wait on the elevator.

It was true; she didn't make the rules. Hell, she wasn't paid enough to get the short side of Remus' temper. There was no telling how riled up Sirius had been in his holding cell. Out of the four – now three – of their friend group, only Remus had been blessed with patience; it was dwindling.

The ride down was thick with tension, the air warm and sticky. He knew it wasn't really stuffy; the building had been charmed to regulate temperature. No, it was all Remus' nerves. Sweat trickled down his spine, the bloody stumps that were once presentable tapping away on the side of his folder. Little red marks trailed across the surface. Neither Janine nor Albus seemed perturbed by their meeting with the soon-to-be convict Sirius Black.

Remus nearly slapped himself. Sirius would not be convicted. With the postponement came an opportunity; they had time to gather more evidence in support of Sirius. The likelihood of the Order speaking against him – what was left of the Order – was slim, and those that knew him knew him well enough to know he'd never order a massacre against his friends. The verdict might as well have been announced now; Sirius Black would be a free man.

At least while Remus had a say so. Since their interrogation with that volatile heathen, Varga, Remus and James had been on the lookout for Peter Pettigrew. Of course, they had no luck. Remus had the feeling James was putting minimal effort into the search for one of two reasons: A) his son was about to be born and if they were planning on raising him in a nice household, they needed to get a move on in the real estate department before everything good was gone, or B) he didn't actually believe his friends when they told him who the real traitor was. At least not entirely.

James was loyal to a fault. A nasty, begrudging fault that often got him in trouble. Remus had spent the past three weeks piecing together the mosaic that had caused chaos in the Order, and James was still wary. He placed his bets on longevity and kindness; Peter had been there for quite some time, and he'd never hurt James in all the years they'd been friends. For James, it was difficult to see why someone would just turn against their family. In that respect, it was just as difficult to turn against Sirius – they were brothers.

Remus saw Peter for how he truly was. Sirius and James both had their biases, and while they were fundamentally different, they were skewed. On the one hand, James envisioned Peter as a "do-no-wrong" type of pal that hardly dared to ask out Marlene McKinnon and came over on Thursdays for football. On the other, Sirius had always hated Peter for his timid behavior and lack of initiative. Hate wasn't a strong word, either. Sirius despised Peter and made sure to broadcast it for the world to see.

Remus, however, was different. In the weeks leading up to the trial, that was since then postponed, he'd been able to figure out where it might have gone wrong. There's only so much exclusion a person can take before they explore other options. Their fifth year was difficult; all of them were so caught up in romance and glory that, to put it simply, Peter had faded into their background. He became a secondary character in all of their motion pictures. Remus was even guilty of placing their friendship on the back burner for Sirius.

Peter was impressionable and placid at best. Otherwise, he was gullible and had good intentions. Most of the time. It seemed that the pattern ceased by the end of their schooling.

In any case, Remus had to prove that Pettigrew was the traitor, and relying on Sirius' point of view was going to get him nowhere. Remus had to figure out another option.

The elevator halted, Janine not taking a glance his way before striding to the entry point.

"Afternoon, Ms. Davies," a portly gentleman beamed.

Janine offered a tight-lipped smile, "Hell, Charles. I've got visitors for 127-SOB-81. Mr. Remus Lupin and Albus Dumbledore."

Charles seemed lost in a trance as he eyed Dumbledore. He nearly fell over trying to get a better look at him.

"It's an honor to meet you, Sir," he stuttered. "My name is Charles Frank. I-I've worked here for fifty years – I remember when –"

"Charles," Janine snapped.

Charles' eyes flitted from Janine to Albus, tempted to continue his whimsical tale of working in the Ministry to Dumbledore who just might have sat there the entire day to listen. He decided it best not to irritate Janine, recording the visitors in a catalog at least a foot thick.

"Wands please," he groaned. "And don't even think about sneaking anything else in."

"Of course not," Dumbledore grinned, the wrinkles under his eyes crinkling with fondness. "It's always best to respect the law, wouldn't you agree Remus?"

Remus, in fact, didn't give a damn about the law currently unless it was to aid Sirius' freedom. Seeing as though Charles might refuse them entry, he made the decision to abide by the rules. Maybe. He nodded once, placing the wand in a plastic box and facing Janine. He hoped his face looked stoic and in need of haste; if she continued the idle stroll through another corridor, he just might scream.

"Follow me," Janine sighed, using her wand to open the door.

It really wasn't all that complicated. It was obvious that there were only a select few who knew the spell that would open the door, and if anyone else tried it, Charles would be alerted. It was honestly embarrassing to remember how classified and aggrandizing the Ministry seemed when he was just a boy. It was pure logic, he soon realized. None of it would make sense without a little bit of common knowledge; a schoolboy could figure out half of it.

The hallway leading to the holding cells was narrow and chilly; fluorescent lights were strung across the ceiling, dangling dangerously low. Remus leaned forward to avoid a head injury. Janine didn't seem too bothered by any of it, and neither did Dumbledore. He looked as pleasant as ever, aged hands clasped loosely in front of him. His blue eyes shimmered under the yellow lights, just barely visible over the half-moon spectacles.

They passed different doorways; on the front was an assignment. Sirius' number was practically burned into Remus' retinas from all the reading he'd done.

127-SOB-81. 127-SOB-81. 127-SOB-81.

Without noticing it, he kept on the lookout for that seal. The farther they walked, the closer he would be to seeing Sirius. Just being within a yard of him was tantalizing, like a dream. Remus prayed that it wasn't. He was haunted enough as it was by images of all that had happened. There were moments that the people, their screams, and the chaos forced itself to the forefront of his mind; some nights, he lay awake, eyes burning, because he refused to sleep. Sleep brought nothing but terror and misery; he'd much rather mope around the next day with little energy than to suffer throughout the night.

Sirius was near, and that was enough to soothe the palpitations in his chest. It would be enough for now. When the time came for him to visit again, however long it took, he would be there for him. Now more than ever, Sirius needed support. Lily and James were busy with baby things. It was up to Remus to ensure Sirius got what he needed.

Janine swirled on the heel of her shoe, fingers clasped around the handle of the doorway leisurely.

"Mr. Dumbledore," she said, "the Minister for Magic will be down the hallway. You can follow me once Mr. Lupin has gotten comfortable."

She jerked the door open, entering without a care in the world; Remus supposed he was to follow her, holding the file close to his hip. A small piece of metal dug into his skin. It served as a reminder. A reminder of him.

"Someone will bring in Mr. Black in a moment," she droned. "Don't touch anything, don't move anything, and if you need water, just wait till you're through." Remus gulped, his spit thick. "Someone will be on the other side of the door the entire time if Mr. Black tries anything funny. Just call –"

"Sirius would never hurt me," Remus defended his friend hotly. "He just wants to be home. Where he belongs."

Janine's eyes were stoic, her expression bland. She was clearly unmoved by the theatrics if one considered Remus' outburst dramatic. It could be assumed she was used to this sort of behavior, her words a record player with a broken needle.

"Of course, Mr. Lupin," she said, exiting swiftly.

Remus flinched at the slam, his teeth chattering in his mouth. So, it was really happening. After weeks of forced separation, this was needed. He'd hoped Sirius had missed him just as much. It seemed hopeless trying to live life without him at first. Every waking moment, Remus found himself playing the memories over in his head; it felt like all he could ever think about was what he hadn't cherished, the moments he'd let go to waste. All the times they'd argued, or said nasty things; when they abandoned each other when things got rough – it just made him feel as much a coward as Peter.

Remus vowed to make it up to Sirius. If it took days, weeks, months, or years – he would do it. He was reminded of an old saying of Adonis:

I am still heading toward you, running, running, running.

The door swung open.

"Get your filthy hands off me," Sirius howled. "You smell as if you haven't bathed in a week, much less washed your hands. I said unhand me!"

Sirius stumbled in, tattered clothing and long hair billowing around his frame. He looked thin and weak, far too small to be giving such a fight to a man ten times his own size. His hands were shackled together, the chains rattling against his bones. There were no shoes on his feet, nothing to block the chill of the Ministry. The guard, looking displeased, slammed the door as Sirius cursed. It was as if he hadn't even noticed Remus standing there.

But Remus saw him. He saw him, and a piece of him shattered.

"Padfoot," he whispered, the urge to embrace Sirius nearly overwhelming him. He was moved to tears. "Sirius!"

A bell had sounded to Sirius, his eyes fixated on Remus. He saw him. He finally saw him. They stood there, frozen, both too afraid to move lest they rouse from their dreams. Neither one seemed fully tangible; Remus felt so disconnected from it all. He was watching from another place. Sirius' mouth hung open, his sentence stopped short. They were speechless. For the first time in forever, seeing the other brought nothing but silence and static.

"You came," Sirius muttered, disbelief steeped into his words.

Remus, baffled that he would ever consider the alternative, nodded, "I came."

"Why?"

"Why not?"

Sirius stared, body stiff and eyes hard. It hadn't even been a month. Not even a month had gone by and he was different – colder – than before. Remus couldn't imagine what it was like to be alone. Well, that wasn't entirely true. Remus spent most of his childhood alone, but he'd no true memories from life before Walter's Ash after a while. Sirius had ten years to mull over in a windowless room for weeks at a time. No one came in and he only left for restroom breaks.

What a horrible life to live.

"Because I'm a traitor," Sirius stated, a bite to his words.

"You and I both know that's not true," Remus hissed, taking a step forward.

Sirius stepped back, "Don't get near me."

Remus furrowed his eyebrows. Had he really felt that betrayed? Much of that night in April felt like a nightmare, though it was fading with time and more effort one should exercise. He recalled a duel between James and Sirius – one of the worst he'd ever seen. Next thing he knew, Sirius was dragged out by Moody and a few other Aurors. Was he in the right?

"Don't look glum, darling," Sirius sneered, flopping gracefully in a metal chair. "I would rub your feet if I could, but these bindings are charmed."

"Oh."

Remus seated himself across from Sirius, hands flat against the folder in front of him. Now that the time was here, it was difficult to communicate their present situation. There were a million things he could've said; hell, the weather would be a great start. Remus was terrible at delivering news both good and bad. Would Sirius even want to hear it? He was in a mood, no doubt, but that's to be expected given his circumstances.

"I –"

"Wait a moment," Sirius interrupted swiftly, motioning for Remus to silence. "I just have to know if Lily is okay. The baby? They're alright?"

Remus stuttered for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Where to begin?

"Other than a bit of a fright, Lily is as healthy as a horse," he said. "In fact, I'd say she's fairing better than any of us… right now."

Remus stared off; he forced himself to brighter thoughts – happier days. Why was it that when he needed to reminisce his mind refused to let him.

"And the baby," Sirius prompted.

Remus smiled despite himself, "Baby Harry is due in early June. At the moment, he's the size of a cantaloupe and insists on making Lily piss like a racehorse. Not to mention, he kicks."

Sirius looked as if he could burst.

"He'll play football, mark me," he said, a face splitting grin stretched from ear to ear. "That is if James doesn't force him on a broomstick."

"Don't get your hopes up," Remus snickered. "The broom has already been ordered along with the gear."

They laughed together, lost in thoughts of the new baby Harry and optimism. Remus wondered if it would be the same if Peter were locked away instead of an innocent man. Would they be together, sitting in one room with only the other for company, laughing as if nothing were amiss? It would seem as if they could never get on the same page, one far away from the checkpoint they needed to cross together. Would it ever be the same?

"How are you, Remus," Sirius' voice was hushed. It was lowered, more solemn upon the mention of well-being.

"Do you want the truth or half of the truth," he teased. Sirius was passive at best to this attempt at humor. "I'm… I'm a bloody wreck, to be honest."

"We were wrecks before, you know," Sirius mentioned off-handedly, picking at the dirt beneath his nails.

Remus glowered, "You don't have to act so apathetically, Sirius. It's okay if –"

"No, Remus, it isn't okay," Sirius snapped. "Nothing is okay. I'm stuck in here while Peter is out there plotting! I don't give a damn about being in prison or not as long as he's in here with me. I'll even room with him and strangle him myself."

"Don't say that," Remus said. "You don't mean it."

"And if I do," Sirius challenged. "He's the reason half of us are dead. He's the reason Lily – Harry – almost died."

"There were other people responsible in this," Remus explained. "This is bigger than just Peter."

Sirius scoffed, the laughter wearing off, "Well if you all had listened to me in school then we wouldn't be here."

Remus' patience, though blessed with copious amounts, was thinning, "You were a bully in school, Sirius. Forgive us if we couldn't tell the difference between suspicion and jealousy."

Sirius rolled his eyes and crossed his legs gracefully, the stoic mask firmly in place and unlikely to change.

"And to think we once loved each other," Sirius sneered.

Remus felt something inside of him break into infinitesimal of pieces. He'd once read that heartbreak was physical. It caused a tightening sensation in your chest, the ribs felt far too tight, and your lungs refused to work properly. Whoever wrote the article had been, regretfully, all too correct.

There was nothing that came to mind that could ever pass as a response to such a comment. Nothing at all. No witty remark or wise words. Not an argument or a rebuttal. Nothing. His mind remained blank as his heart withered in his chest. Sirius said nasty things all the time; Remus knew it was a knee jerk response. Trauma was deeply rooted within his core, and it would take much more than a few therapy sessions to get rid of it.

But damn, did it hurt. He'd never get used to it. Despite that, he'd never learn how to stop loving Sirius anyway.

He grinned woefully, "To think I still do."

Remus rose, the folder was now untouched and stale. There was enough information to build a case; that had been the entire reason for his visit. Yet, it had all been ruined.

"Remus," Sirius began.

But Remus did what Remus did best. He walked away, leaving behind Sirius to ruminate in what he'd done. The answer to his question was answered:

He had not changed, they had not changed. But nothing would ever be the same.


	5. Why Not?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist.  
>  Even in pain."  
> -via_ Lord Byron

_Manchester, July 1980_

Remus paced the confines of his bedroom. He stumbled over stray button-ups and slacks, the pads of his feet flexing over ties and pairs of socks thrown over his shoulder in frustration. The scene around him was catatonic – chaotic and disheveled to the worst extent. Not even acknowledging the pile-up of paperwork and files on the bed and nightstands, old cartons of takeout and dirty laundry were scattered all over the floor. It had been this way for weeks; one could tell by the thin layer of dust covering paper plates and old t-shirts. There were far more important things to be worrying about than the state of his room.

Lily, of course, was inclined to disagree, but Remus didn't give a jot. His attention had been focused on Sirius and the case since its beginning in April. The fall had been gradual, but it surely showed after nearly three months of inattentiveness.

"Moony," James called from the hallway, a knock sounding on the door. "We've got ten minutes before we've got to leave!"

Remus felt his fingers trembling, his jaw ticking. Would this have been a hell of a lot easier if his room was at least manageable? Yes. Was he at his wits' end after searching for nearly a half an hour for his blazer? Yes. Would James slaughter him if they were late to the trial? Oh, most definitely. It wasn't as if he could ask James for any of his; the man was built like a grizzly bear, and Remus was a mere two-by-four plank of wood.

"I've got to find something," he hissed, digging through his closet in vain.

Remus didn't want to be late either. He'd waited too long for this day to waste it on a blazer. Sirius' court case was being held at the Ministry of Magic in front of the Wizengamot and the Prime Minister – a new woman named Millicent. Rumor had it that the official judge overseeing today's trial was Barty Crouch.

Remus could only hope that was a foul lie spread to scare him.

For weeks, he and his friends had tried their hardest to find Peter Pettigrew, but with a country as large as England, and the endless hiding places around the world, it would've been mental to continue the search instead of gathering evidence. Besides, much to Remus' annoyance, James hadn't put in half the effort one should in order to see his best mate free by the birth of his child. However, Remus kept those thoughts – the more malevolent ones – to himself in times such as these.

Regardless, there was enough hope to light up London in Remus' heart. But with that much hope came considerable insecurities. The city was against them, and it would take more than "he-said-she-said" and a finger to point to win this case over. Remus was insecure in the evidence he gathered; there wasn't much to it in the long run. However, his mother had promised him something was better than nothing at all, and they still had the testimonies from the Order and Dr. Slade on their side.

There was hope inside of Remus, but would it be enough?

"Are you looking for your tan blazer," Lily called from the other side of the door.

Remus huffed, elbows deep into his clothing rack, "Yes! I can't find it anywhere."

"I pressed it for you this morning," she said. "It's hanging up in the laundry room."

Remus sighed both with relief and minor annoyance. Although they spent much of their time with James' parents, both of whom had been sick for weeks, Lily enjoyed becoming a rather persistent back sore on Remus. It wasn't as if he didn't like them. Hell, they were both his closest friends after all had been longed and lost. In fact, they were all he had anymore besides his own mother. It was a kind gesture for them to spend their free time with him, but their suburban lifestyle definitely threw him for a loop.

Apparently married couples actually cook for one another and plan for meals. Lily called it something like "meal prep" or something else of the sort Remus had never heard of. Not only this, but they bickered over things such as curtains or rugs – especially James since he hardly had any say in the décor of their new residence. They also did each other's laundry – something Remus had not been prepared for. Usually he and Sirius

Remus wasn't used to this – not in the slightest. Sure, living with Sirius had its downfalls. On the one hand, they did argue over what to watch on the television. Sirius preferred the soap operas that came on too late for anyone's pleasure while Remus enjoyed late-night talk shows. On the other, it felt as if there'd been a steady stream of stability when he and Sirius were together. Sure, they ordered take out far too often and Remus couldn't care less if a leprechaun had decorated Sirius' home, but it was their new way of life.

And just as soon as he'd gotten used to it, the world ripped it out from under his own feet.

He felt something in his chest wither, veiling the hope that once poked out through the dark times they persevered through. Lily had been waiting in the living room of Remus' apartment, belly round and soon to bust. As Lily always did, she made sure she looked prim and crisp – ready for anything. No doubt she'd set an enlargement charm in her purse; the woman carried anything one could think of: umbrellas, baby wipes, spare combs and toothbrushes, lipstick, a pair of shoes for each of them, a cardigan, and more. Leave it to her to come prepared for any catastrophe.

Just as she'd said, his blazer had been hanging up in his laundry room along with more clothes than he'd ever seen. Had he even owned corduroys?

He blanched.

The stitching pattern, the color, the fucking fabric – the little stain of raspberry jam when Sirius had been laughing too hard over breakfast. They'd been Sirius' pants. Remus inched nearer to them, hands reaching out and brushing the fabric lightly. He hadn't seen them since that morning so long ago; it was more likely they'd been buried beneath the mountains of clothes Sirius owned already. Hell, if you'd asked him three months ago if he'd tear up over a pair of fucking corduroys, Remus would likely think you're barking mad, yet here he was: nearly in shambles over a pair of pants he hadn't seen in ages.

"Remus," James said from the hallway, "if we want to visit Sirius before the trial we must leave now."

Remus blinked away his years, swallowing any doubt in his mind about the day ahead of them. It was now more than ever that he needed to man up. Now more than ever that he needed to show those different shades of Gryffindor. It was now that he needed to live up to his reputation as the level-headed mediator.

Could he pull it off though?

•─────⋅ ⋅─────•

_The Ministry of Magic, July 1980_

Remus didn't think he'd ever get over the jitters that accompanied his visits to the Ministry. Memories of the tagging flooded his senses – a burning sensation tingling at the nape of his neck where he'd been branded by his own Godfather, kicking and wailing like a mad man. His father let that man do it to him, too. Lyall didn't do a damn thing to help. Now it was all Remus could do to maintain his composure in that place, to not run and hide in some faraway forest like a feral raccoon.

Even then, the looks he got from passerby's made his skin crawl. The Wolf had convinced him that they simply knew by looking at him – judged the scars and abrasions covering his skin – that he was a Werewolf. Wasn't it bloody obvious? Remus felt like a stranger in his own skin – petrified of making the smallest move in fear of reprimand, or something far worse. With the height of the war, he didn't doubt the Ministry would eradicate him in an instant.

He clung to Lily instead, chewing the insides of his cheeks to hell. The sting of broken skin and blood on his tongue was pungent and bitter, but it sent a rush of ease over his body. His fingernails were too short to chew, and his lips had been raw for weeks on end. Besides, this way James wouldn't scold him for his worrying. It was a silent, soothing tactic.

Hundreds of people, mainly reporters, had gathered in the Ministry for the trial that day. It was historic, believe it or not. One of the most wealthy, renowned, and feared families in all of wizarding Britain had finally met its downfall – the rogue son. Not only that, but the rogue son had been fighting on the wrong side, so many believed. According to the Prophet, and that's if one even took it seriously anymore, Sirius had been working for You-Know-Who for years under the pretenses of a secret order; Remus found that quote rather ironic. It was the only sensible answer for attacking Narcissa in her own home.

Except it wasn't.

Not a single thing the papers wrote seemed legitimate at all. The majority of them claimed to have had an inside source feeding them information, but whatever was left of the Order had been under lock and key by Alastor's orders. Even if they had been, anything shedding a negative light on Sirius should've been taken with a grain of salt.

"Mr. Potter! Mr. Potter," one shouted, shoving her way to the front lines.

Several other leeches took notice of the prime testifiers and flocked around them, encircling them with their bright cameras and charmed quills.

"Mr. Potter, is it true that Mr. Black attacked his family during your school years," she said.

Remus' blood ran hot within him, patience thinning like ice in the spring. James remained stoic, calmly shielding Lily and her stomach as he pushed through the crowd. Had they no decency? Lily was clearly pregnant, and ensnaring her for questions was beyond unprofessional! If he had the option to feed them a piece of his mind, God damn it, he would've, but their lawyer, a squib named Demetria Hammond, advised them to stay silent until further notice.

"Mr. Lupin," a man called, face red and sweat dripping, "what was it like being the lover of –"

"Move," he demanded, shouldering through the flock of blood-thirsty reporters. "Out of the way!"

The three strategically maneuvered through bodies and cameras, blinded by the flashes of bulbs and feathers in their face. Remus found it difficult to breathe; his lungs shrunk up inside of him and refused to expand. There was a match in his throat, the tip burning through his vocal cords and singing his skin. He didn't have any room – there was nowhere to run! Remus was trapped among these people; they shouted and called for him, but a humming noise took over. The sounds one should hear in the Ministry faded into nothing, masked by his own mind.

Blood pooled in his mouth; he was unable to keep up with the flow and bits of dead skin on his tongue. He felt the bare tips of his fingers digging into his thigh, hoping to feel the sweet sensation of punctured skin. Too many people. Too much shouting. He couldn't fucking breathe.

"Remus," Lily pulled him closer, the light at the end of the tunnel so close.

In the distance, he saw his father and Dumbledore, both looking as vague and morally gray as ever. It'd been the first time in months he'd seen Lyall; there'd been little correspondence within his family in recent times. So much had happened. So much out of Remus' control.

The crowd parted when they came face to face with the men. Dumbledore smiled fondly at Lily, his eyes remaining on her face rather than flitting down to the large bump beneath her dress.

"How lovely it is to see you, Mrs. Potter," he beamed, kissing the top of her hand.

Remus could barely contain himself; the urge to grimace nearly took over. The little faith and trust he had in humanity did not lie in Albus any longer. The man was clever and sneaky, Remus knew that much. It felt as though every action held an impactful, sometimes dangerous, reaction whenever one encountered Albus Dumbledore; as if everything had a price – even a simple hello.

All that had happened to them recently linked back to him; how could Remus trust him?

"You, too," was all she mumbled, pulling away from him.

James wrapped a protective arm around her shoulder, a kiss planted at the top of her head.

"Mr. Potter," Dumbledore nodded, smiling despite the circumstances.

James only nodded.

"Mr. Lupin," Dumbeldore said, "what a sight for sore eyes!"

"Hullo."

Remus' eyes flickered toward his father, his heart yearning for an acknowledgment of any kind – a grunt, a glare, a despicable frown – anything to let Remus know his father knew he was even there. Yet his father refused to even glance at him. Despite having not seen him for months with no letters or phone calls, Lyall Lupin would've rather acted as if he'd never even seen Remus before, let alone knew who he was, than face the criticisms that came with acquaintanceship.

"I suppose if we're all here," Dumbledore sighed, "we might as well take our seats."

James frowned, "I thought we'd be able to see Sirius before the trial begins?"

Dumbledore turned on his heal, an innocent, puzzled expression clouding his features.

Here it was: the reaction Remus had been waiting for.

"Did no one tell you," he asked. There was no response, but it had been an answer enough. "Mr. Black is allowed a single visit before the trial, so as not to confuse any of the details before testimonies. I assumed you all would rather not visit at all lest –"

"No one told any of us that," James fumed. "He deserves at least one person!"

"I just assumed you all would rather not bicker over the visiting privileges, is all," Dumbledore explained, a coy smile present on his aging face. "Today is too important to be muddled by –"

"Let Remus go," Lily ordered, voice firm and determined.

Each of the men had been taken back by her stern tone. It was definite, not to be contradicted. Even Lyall seemed intimidated by this pint-sized firework. Remus had to admit that it would've made much more sense to send in James. He was much better at pep talks; it was the years spent in the Quidditch locker rooms that made him so adept with words of encouragement. Besides, he and Sirius had left on quite the sour note last time they'd seen each other, which had mostly been Remus' fault. He didn't want to do it again.

"I really don't think," Remus stuttered, face red.

"No," Lyall growled. "Neither do I."

James barged into the conversation with a cool tone, "I know Sirius, and if there's anyone he'd want to see right now, it's Moony."

Remus shook his head, "That isn't true."

Even years later, Remus doubted himself whenever it came to Sirius. Things between them were volatile at best, and it took him too long to realize that perhaps they weren't the best for each other. In the end, someone always ended up screaming or crying, sometimes both. That's no life to live; neither of them deserved such torture. Sirius just had to realize this by now, and that is exactly why Remus should've been the last person in the world to cheer him up.

"You're wasting his time by arguing," James said. "Just do it, Moony."

Remus ignored the indignant stare from his father – the first form of eye contact they'd had in months – and looked to Lily for guidance.

"What would I even say?"

As gentle and tender as ever, Lily tightened her grasp on Remus' trembling hands. Her palms were warm and soft from her moisturizer, and she smelled of gardenias. Remus could hardly look into her eyes, too afraid to break under the pressure.

"Just let your heart speak for you," she said, stroking a strand of hair out of his face. "You always know exactly what to say when the moment arises. Don't get cold feet now."

Remus smiled despite himself, "My feet were never warm, to begin with."

Lily thwacked him upside the head, her silent send-off. Remus was beyond nervous. Nothing had compared to this moment in his life. He now appreciated those melodramatic moments behind him: his first Halloween dance at Hogwarts, his position as Prefect, kissing Sirius for the first time, applying to his job at the emporium. All of it seemed so small beside this gargantuan boulder on his shoulders.

The truth was that Remus, in fact, didn't know what to say. What could he say? Promising Sirius his freedom set the stage for betrayal and telling him there was no hope only fed into his already present doubts. What a mess he'd found himself in.

Again, he followed the numbers on the wall; some were new as others were not. The hallway was just as dank and narrow as before, yet it felt as though they were caving in on him the closer he got to Sirius' holding room. No amount of deep breaths or cheek biting would fix it. His body was on fire, and not in a good way at all. Remus was no stranger to feral emotions, but this had taken the cake.

The officer, a young man not much older than Remus, pulled out his keys, "You've got ten minutes. No talking about the trial or anything related to the trial. All belongings are to be put in the bin outside of the room, wand included."

Remus swallowed, spit thick in his mouth. He removed everything he could possibly imagine until he was left with nothing but the clothes on his back. A bit of caution is to be granted in trying times, but Remus couldn't shake the offense. Sirius was not guilty, and he would never do anything to harm another being.

 _Unless they deserve it_ , the wolf teased.

Remus pushed those thoughts away. He vowed to make their time together worth it – even if it had only been a fraction of what they needed. Regardless of the verdict, Remus knew that these moments would forever stand in their minds, good or bad. He hoped he could make amends with Sirius after all they'd been through.

He hoped.

The door opened, a smell wafting into Remus' nose that he hadn't experienced in ages. Sirius' cologne. It was strong and fierce, and it warmed his insides. The room was bright; the fluorescent lights beat down on their heads like the sun in August. The heat was overbearing, and Remus was reminded of his interrogation with Varga.

There was nothing much in the room: two chairs, a table, and the lights. No windows or air vents, nothing to allow a prisoner's thoughts to roam. It was a blank state taunting them. Remus wondered if Sirius even knew what it had looked like outside. Would he ever again?

He flinched as the door slammed.

"You came," he heard.

There was no mistake. It had been Sirius, shocked as ever to see him standing there no doubt. Remus couldn't look at him; the possibility – no the inevitable wave – of unshed tears and unadulterated emotions would become too much to bear, and Remus could be reduced to a pitiful pile of rags and bones. Sirius needed him to be strong.

Facing away, he sighed, "I came."

"Why," Sirius hissed.

Remus was reminded of their last meeting in May – the spite and malice they shared. Would it all wash away as it usually did? Would they go back to the way things were? No, things would never be the same between them. Not after all this time.

"Why not," Remus countered, turning his head only to catch a glance of Sirius.

At least this time he was bathed and dressed appropriately. Perhaps that's one of the perks of wealth and blood status to the Ministry. His hair had been cut close to the scalp – a sight so jarring to Remus he nearly gasped. Sirius never had hair that short. Never. Long, wild hair was his staple – his statement to the world. That along with all of the tattoos and, perhaps, a single nipple piercing, but none of that mattered because they weren't there in the beginning.

For the longest time, Sirius' only statement – silent yet strong – was his hair, and they'd taken that from him. Perhaps it was to make him look only a smidge more presentable to the public, or maybe it was to humiliate him. Remus took a step forward.

"You know why," Remus lowered his voice. "Don't be daft."

"It's my best trait," Sirius said.

Remus frowned, "No, your best trait is getting yourself into trouble."

"What can I say, I live life on the edge," Sirius merely shrugged, only this time it didn't appear so apathetic.

The weight of events was weighing down on him; Sirius' usual nonchalance wasn't cutting the cake anymore. His actions were receiving due consequences, and not even he could escape that.

"I wish you didn't so often," Remus said.

"Because you want me to be –"

"I want you alive, Sirius," Remus interrupted before Sirius could even get the chance to ruin their moment, finality written over his face. "I want you alive, and I want you well. I want you to learn how to play that motherfucking guitar in the sunroom, and I want you to finally paint that portrait of me like you promised. I want you to cook breakfast for me again, and I want you to be there for Lily and James and, eventually, Harry."

Sirius' lip quivered, his teeth chattering as he swallowed the visible lump in his throat.

"I want you to be there with us," Remus murmured. "But you might not be able to anymore, and that kills me."

"I didn't do anything, Moony," Sirius cried, helpless and vulnerable. "You've got to believe me."

Remus held up his hand, "You know I do, Sirius, but we can't talk about it."

"What can we talk about, then," Sirius spat.

Remus felt their space crumbling within the palms of his hands, and he so desperately wanted to piece it back together. Lily must've been mistaken when she claimed his way with words; Remus had ruined their chance.

Remus inhaled deeply, coming closer to Sirius with heavy eyes.

"No matter what happens, Sirius, I love you," he declared. "It isn't worth much, I know, after all the things we've said and done. But I love you."

Sirius frowned harshly, his eyes flitting across Remus' face for some sort of rebuttal.

"How could you say that," he said. "After everything I've done to you – the way I've treated you – and the mess we're in, how the fuck could you even begin to love me?"

"We're not here to have a pity party for you, Sirius," Remus barked. "For once, would you just fucking listen to me?"

Sirius' mouth snapped shut, guilt pooling in the corners of his eyes. Time was running short, and Remus' nerves were beginning to get the better of him. The pep talk he'd prepared on his way down had shot out the window the moment he caught a glimpse of Sirius. That's how they worked; there was no plan, no set destination; they went with the wind, and that's why things always turned out contorted and fickle.

"I love you," Sirius said finally. "I'm not sure why you reciprocate, and I don't think I ever will."

"You need help Sirius, and I can't be the one to do it anymore," Remus said. "You've got to work on yourself, and I mean truly work on you. Not just skipping appointments and hoping the treatment will work."

Sirius nodded, eyes downcast and lip between his teeth. His cheeks were pink and stained with tears; Remus wished he could reach out and wipe them away.

"Keep them safe, please," Sirius said. "And tell Harry about me."

Remus felt his heart shatter in his chest – a feeling he was all too familiar with. His head shook violently at its own will.

"Don't say it like that," he demanded. "You're not giving up."

Sirius shuffled over, hands free from shackles. They still hung low, pulling towards the ground. He wasn't a free man, no matter how fancy his clothes had been. The Ministry was his cell. His body leaned into Remus' slack. Remus didn't even hesitate to wrap his arms around him, pulling him close. It'd been eons since they'd held each other like this – like it had been goodbye. They'd been faced with this ultimatum before; there were times when they'd thought it was the end.

Remus could hardly believe it, but it hit him that it might be the last time he ever saw Sirius like this – young and beautiful with a spark, albeit weak, in his eyes.

And with that, he wept.


	6. Futile Devices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"While I am alive I will be with you –  
>  For soul and blood are inseparable -  
> While I am alive I will be with you –  
> For love and death go together."_
> 
> _-via Aleksandr Kochetkov, tr. Lubov Yakoleva from 20th century Russian Poetry;  
>  " _Ballad about a Smoke-Filled Railway Carriage._ "_

_The Ministry of Magic, Courtroom 5, July 1980_

Remus seated himself beside Lily Potter, his eyes burning and airways obstructed. He could hardly hear his own thoughts over the madness of the courtroom; tens of reporters were flocking around the testifiers and witnesses asking hundreds of questions without even waiting for an answer. They shouted over one another, elbowing each other our of the way and practically trampling others just to get a blurry photo of someone like him. Remus had adapted to their erratic photo-taking, blinking away the spots in his vision and ignoring them the best he could.

His own peers – people he'd known from Hogwarts – were in attendance, their sideways glances and judgemental whispering too apparent for his liking. Old buddies from Gryffindor sat near the back, not even attempting to hide their malice as they chattered away about Sirius. No one else seemed to notice these things; Lily and James had been nattering away at one another since his arrival. Lily was having stomach issues. Yet, that was not Remus' department.

Dorcas Meadowes, a survivor of the massacre in April, had only just arrived as well looking just as peeved and exhausted as the next Order member. She refused to make eye contact with Remus or the Potters, reserving her vacant thousand-yard stare for the floor before them. Remus couldn't exactly blame her; if he'd lost a fraction of what she had in such a short period, there was not a doubt in his mind that he'd be going mad as well. He pitied her, but don't let her figure that out.

The Longbottom's were unable to attend due to the birth of their healthy baby boy – Neville – and while Remus couldn't be happier for the couple, it meant a dent had been put in their masterplan to set Sirius free. Remus forced himself to forgive them; they couldn't possibly have known the child would be born the day before the trial, but that itch in the back of his mind – a nasty little bug – begged him to gnaw on his annoyance just a moment longer.

"We've been sitting here for nearly half an hour," James groaned, thumbing through the prophet. "Half of us didn't even show!"

But that was because most of them had died. Marlene, Elphias, Fabian, and more. So many unidentified bodies had been collected at the Potter's flat; the Order was no more. It felt as though some of them forgot this, perhaps because they hadn't seen it. Hadn't experienced it. Hadn't lived through the massacre first hand. Remus was reminded every night of those that had passed. Every time he blinked, one of their faces appeared through the haze, and he recoiled.

A large set of doors behind the judge's bench opened, the infamous Barty Crouch Sr. striding in with a tense tick in his jaw. The room fell silent, and only then did the reporters decide to conceal their cameras and quills. His long, steady steps carried him to his towering bench, the clicking of his heels sharp and painful to the ears. The man, aging and moody, seated himself with a terrific posture and a stoic expression. His dark eyes remained passive at best and aimed at the table in front of him, the case information being spread diligently like blueprints.

Everyone was on the edge of their seat, and it had only been thirty seconds into the trial; not a word had been spoken, not a thought shared. Not a fickle, fleeting glance had been spared toward the participants of the trial. The tension was spliced by Crouch's roar.

"Calling the case of the People of Wizarding Britain versus prisoner 127-SOB-81: Sirius Orion Black," he said.

Remus felt himself wince. Prisoner. This man saw Sirius as nothing more than scum, and he'd no doubt Sirius would be treated that way. If the rumors of this man had been true, Remus could only pray that they came out victorious.

The doors opposite of Crouch's opened with a screech. Two men accompanied Sirius to the small chair in the middle of the oval floor, chains hanging from the arms and legs. Remus admired Sirius for remaining proud and, even if only a little, arrogant given his circumstances. Many would be reduced to tears after catching a glimpse of betrayal written on every spectators' face.

Instead, Sirius gathered what little dignity he had left and waltzed in like a prized pony. Despite the glowers and hissy whispers, Sirius remained impassive and at ease, calmly seating himself and allowing the guards to shackle him. Perhaps this was a precaution for murderers? Remus couldn't wrap his mind around the idea of such a thing. Seeing Sirius, the same Sirius who'd nearly cried upon seeing a stray cat in their dumpster out back, chained up and broken down – it wasn't pleasant. Not for either party.

Lily pulled his hands away from his mouth, stopping him from chewing on what little skin was left around his nails. Irritable already, he heaved a great sigh and clasped his hands in front of him.

"The charges brought against you today, Mr. Black, are as follows: aggravated assault, aiding and abetting, breaking and entering, conspiracy against the Ministry, disorderly conduct, improper use of magic, murder of the first and second degree, and perjury." Remus swallowed, unaware that the state had that much against Sirius. "How do you plead?"

Sirius tilted his head upward, displaying aristocratic grace as he said, "Not guilty, sir."

"We'll move right along," Crouch said, placing a pair of glasses on the bridge of his large, straight nose. "Mr. Black, the charges brought against you today have substantial evidence, and we will proceed in favor of the state. Do you understand?"

"Not entirely, but do I have much of a choice," Sirius asked, drawling dangerously on each word.

A few of his peers, young ones from their school days, managed a soft chuckle in the stands. The reporters scribbled wildly on their notepads, many even going as far as to snap a photo of a coy Sirius Black in chains. Members of the Wizengamot whispered to one another, shaking their heads with disapproval and loathing. Crouch was not impressed. He leaned forward, hands held tightly.

"Mr. Black," he said, "I've every intention of seeing you off to Azkaban in due time. Do not wear down my patience and speed up the process." Sirius' eyes, cold and firm, blinked once, offering little solace to his judge. Remus wasn't sure if this tango he was dancing would do more harm than good, but leave it to Sirius Orion Black to go out with a bang regardless. "I'll be calling the first witness against you. Narcissa Black-Malfoy."

Sirius' own cousin approached the witness box dawned in all black – the usual attire for that family. Her hair, both inhumanly light and dark, was pinned away from her angled, powdered face. She hadn't aged a day since he'd last seen her in school, yet she'd appeared to have already lost so much of her old spark and youth. The bump that had been full and robust in April had flattened, leaving no trace of her child. He was in the crowd somewhere with his father, no doubt, watching his mother convict her own flesh and blood.

Remus expected some high and mighty lawyer to prance around like a baboon with all sorts of implications and questions for the "victims." Crouch had said it himself: they were proceeding in favor of the people – Sirius was set up to lose. It would've been easier receiving that blow from an unfamiliar face.

Seeing that bastard, Neil Varga, making a sleazy appearance yet again, made Remus' stomach churn. He'd hoped to see the last of him all those months ago. Life had a cruel sense of humor.

"Good morning, Mrs. Malfoy," he said. Narcissa merely nodded. "What is your relationship with the accused?"

Narcissa's eyes, pale and averted, trailed over Sirius' form, "He's my cousin."

Varga said, "So you've known the accused for the vast majority of your life?"

"Yes."

"In your personal opinion, what three words describe your cousin the best," Varga asked.

Remus hunkered down in his chair, preparing for the most brutal battle of all. If the court relied solely on the Black family's testimonies they were royally fucked. He rubbed his sweaty palms against his slacks.

"Inconsiderate, confrontational, and finicky," she stated, face emotionless.

Remus was convinced this was all planned – all rehearsed. She answered too quickly for his liking. Crouch had to see through the veil. He just had to.

"Has he always been those things," Varga continued.

"It's gotten much worse with age," she explained. "We used to think he was just a bratty child, you know. Spoilt and too arrogant for his own good. My late aunt, Walburga Black, tried her hardest to raise Sirius with love and –"

Sirius rolled his eyes, "I'd like to please alert you all that this statement is a bald-faced lie. My mother preferred me in a hole six feet under than six feet near her. Anyone who knew her can attest to that."

Crouch slammed his gavel on the table in front of him with dominance, "Silence!"

Varga, smirking in Sirius' direction, returned his attention back to his witness. Remus squirmed in his chair, hoping that it would all be over soon. This day couldn't have gone worse, yet there was so much left to cover that he wasn't sure he'd make it.

"Give us all a short summary of what happened on April 28th, 1980, Mrs. Malfoy."

Narcissa's face screwed up in vain, her cheeks heating to a soft shade of rose and hands fretting with her cardigan. It was painfully obvious she didn't do well under such scrutiny, and if Remus had to guess, a lot was running on her testimony alone. Most of the charges held against Sirius were due to his attack on the manor.

She inhaled deeply, "Sirius came barging in like a madman. I was throwing a small get together with a few of my husband's colleagues – you knew some of them, Mr. Crouch! It was to celebrate baby Draco's upcoming delivery."

Remus wanted to demand she cry him a river so that he could drown himself. Holding himself together was proving to be much more difficult than expected; his heart raced within his chest. It wasn't like him to get angry with people; along with James, he'd the most patience with others. Yet, this woman was testing his patience. He assumed the rest of the witnesses would as well.

"There was blood all over his clothes, and he was shouting at me," she continued. "He was going on and on about some man. I didn't know who he was talking about at all! That's when he started attacking the guests. I don't know how he did it, but he managed to disarm a-and k—"

"It's alright, Mrs. Malfoy," Varga said, giving the most sympathetic look Remus had seen all day. "He attacked you then, correct?"

With tears in her eyes, she nodded, "I thought he was going to kill me. Honest to God, I did. Mr. Potter saved me."

A few eyes drifted toward their section, James recoiling at the attention. He didn't want to be seen as the hero in this case because he wasn't. Remus didn't particularly appreciate her sentiments either. Remus knew the truth.

Varga asked her a handful of questions about the incident and her past with Sirius, none of which was in favor of her cousin. It would've appeared that perhaps treating his family with a bit of common decency might have helped in the long run, but who could've planned for such a disaster as this? Not a single one of them. Sure, Sirius was melodramatic and a bit foolish, but none of them would've ever thought he'd be accused of murder by the age of twenty-one. Not even Peter Pettigrew, though he was benefiting from this entire ordeal greatly Remus assumed.

The Wizengamot seemed quite moved by Narcissa's story, nodding deeply as she recalled her "traumatic" encounters with her cousin on several occasions. The Christmas of 1974 seemed to be a popular topic of her testimony; Remus could make out the wry, baffled smile on Sirius' face as she spoke. He was just as befuddled as any of them were on how exactly she could spin such a tragic story from the depths of the Black family's closet.

"Your response to this, Mr. Black," Crouch boomed, though he really didn't look like he'd be listening to much of it.

Sirius attempted to cross his legs but was held back by the chains bolted to the floor. He huffed, placing them back down where they'd once been and directed his attention toward the Wizengamot.

"My relationship with Narcissa, in particular, has been rather dull, Your Honor," Sirius announced, "seeing as though she spent most of her time with Lucius and the other Riddle fanatics most Slytherin's would hang around in school."

Crouch, aghast, removed his stare from the papers in front of him with a slight drop in his jaw. If anyone knew Crouch, they knew how finely tuned his hatred for Voldemort had been. Sirius was smart, Remus would give him that.

"I also find it quite interesting that, instead of being at the supposed celebration for baby Draco, that Lucius Malfoy himself was in the apartment casting Unforgivables during the massacre at Lily Potter's baby shower," he said, eyebrow lifted as if daring anyone to tell him otherwise. "But that's only my two cents."

It seemed foolproof, really, that Sirius divulge this piece of information to the judge. In fact, it was the boldest and most daring thing he could've done in his position, really, because who would believe the accused? Who would believe the son of the wealthiest, most conniving family in all of wizarding Britain? Who would believe a murderer?

Crouch cleared his throat, taking a few notes as he said, "Next witness."

For the next three hours, person after person came up to testify against Sirius; the entirety of the Black family he'd left behind, Severus Snape, old peers from school he'd picked on, and family friends his mother had gossiped with. Each and every one of them had their own story to tell about Sirius, and they ran across the same field: Sirius is a dangerous, unpredictable man with a fiery temper and low self-control. They considered him a threat to humanity and were sure to communicate this in the most hateful, yet professional, way possible.

And it worked. After every story and every witness came a new whisper and a harsher glare. Crouch seemed to become locked into his decision on the sentencing, and Sirius' allies hadn't even gotten the chance to speak. Seventeen people had testified that Sirius was a terrible person and quite capable of doing what he'd been accused of, and if Remus didn't know the love of his life as well as he did, he could consider the possibility.

Yet that wasn't the case. He did know Sirius, inside and out, and he nearly vomited upon hearing the foul lies they spread. Remus had every right to deck them in the face next time he saw them – Severus especially. He didn't dare look over at Lily lest he upset the three men who'd always protect her with their lives. The Ministry might have protected Severus during the trial, but that protection wasn't guaranteed elsewhere.

Finally, after a grueling testimony from the crooked bastard himself, Crouch ordered a short recess for lunch. Remus made way for Lily, protecting her waddling body from the swarm of reporters and civilians. She was red in the face – probably from trying not to cry – and claimed she needed some water. Even though it meant one hour longer he had to wait to receive the news, Remus was starving and, if cared to admit, a bit overwhelmed by all that had happened.

"I couldn't bear to hear another word," Lily spat as she hurried toward the floo. "Severus has a lot of nerve showing his bloody face after –"

"Lils," James said, trying to placate his wife, "no need for language."

"What do you mean, no language," she hissed. "He lied! All of them lied, James."

James looked at Remus, his eyes pleading softly for help. Remus was unsure what to say; on the one hand, Lily was right, and each of them was fully entitled to be pissed beyond belief. Hell, he was! If he ever caught wind of Severus' name, heaven forbid he show his sleazy face, Remus might not have been able to control himself. But, what did he expect from Sirius' consistent taunting target? It would've been foolish for him to underestimate the Ministry's witnesses. Each of them, in their own right, loathed Sirius and would do anything to see his downfall.

"The only thing we can do is tell our truth," Remus finally spoke.

Lily, fuming by this point, shook her head violently, "I can't believe that they all stood up there, looked him in the eye, and –"

Lily's swollen feet came to a screeching halt, face pale and eyes wide. James paused beside her searching for the discrepancy. He circled her frenetically, hands held out to her.

"What's wrong," he asked. "Lily, what's wrong?"

She clutched her stomach, knees buckling beneath her, and cried out in agony. Her shrieking jumped from wall to wall, echoing throughout the room – a church bell in New York on a Monday. The bodies around them, some cautious and some not, froze in panic as Lily wailed.

Remus' eyes widened; he didn't know what to do. Lily was too beside herself to respond to any of their questions. He and James shared worried expressions, unsure of what to do. How could they help? Water began dripping down Lily's legs, a small puddle forming around her heels.

"Are you –" James began, the implication too ridiculous to even consider. Well, was it?

"No, she's not pissing herself, idiot," Remus barked, "her water's broke!"

Spectators surrounded them with inquisitive, prying eyes, their whispers too indiscreet not to notice. James found himself too absorbed in a panic to do much of anything, and Remus was lurking near the same predicament. They'd never discussed what to do once Lily gave birth; this was supposed to happen after the trial! Here they were, surrounded by hundreds of strangers, some with cameras capturing the moment, and not a single exit in sight.

"What can I do," Remus asked, urgency in his voice.

"Mungos," Lily demanded. "I need to get to St. Mungo's."

James' expression twisted, "B-But Sirius –"

Lily twisted James' ironed shirt in her fist, pulling him close and glowering like a hungry lion, "I refuse to give birth in the Goddamn Ministry, James Fleamont. Now, get me to Mungos. Now."

Even Remus quivered in his boots; it was seldom Lily used her colonel's voice. Remus almost pitied James; it was obvious he was torn down the middle, Remus was too. There was not a doubt in his mind they needed to go with Lily; James would never forgive himself for missing the birth of his child. However, if things turned south, he'd never be able to live with knowing he wasn't there for Sirius. It was two different edges of the same sword, and it was threatening all of them.

Lily shuffled to the floo, "Remus, you stay. Come as soon as it's all over, and if you can, bring Sirius."

He didn't want to stay – not by himself. There were seconds between them, a few seconds where he'd nearly begged them not to go. James and Lily were the glue holding him together on such a grievous day; there was no one now. Not even his own mother, and God forbid he rely on his father. James looked back at him, a genuine apology and an expression of guilt unmatched. This would kill him.

Green flames lit up his face, his mouth ajar with unspoken pleas. She hadn't even given him a moment to argue. The surrounding onlookers resumed their chattering, the puddle on the floor magicked away. It was as if Lily hadn't even been there, to begin with. They were gone just as soon as they came, and not a single person besides Remus seemed to give a jot.

The clacking of heels behind him resonated in his chest, an unyielding weight on his ribs bearing down.

"Mr. Lupin," he heard. "Remus, are you alright?"

Minerva McGonagall, looking as crisp and prim as ever, hovered near him. Dumbeldore was nearby, of course, conversing with other members of the Wizengamot as old friends of a sort. The others – members of the Order, that is – were nowhere in sight, and he seriously doubted they would come to his rescue. Remus' teeth clamped down on the inside of his cheek, drawing blood.

"Remus," McGonagall repeated. "What's happened to Mr. and Mrs. Potter?"

Remus hardly mustered the energy to speak, "Lily's going through labor. James took her to Mungos."

Her face twisted with some sort of emotion Remus didn't catch. Perhaps a mixture of joy and disappointment. He was inclined to shed the same.

"Well," she sighed, "how lovely."

"Yes," Remus said. "Purely fucking golden."

•─────⋅ ⋅─────•

"Calling to the stand Dorcas Meadowes," Crouch called.

Dorcas, who'd said nothing since the start of their horrid day, trudged to the witness stand. In Remus' honest to God opinion, she looked half dead. He'd never seen her look so dull in his life. With Marlene around, Dorcas was vibrant and vivacious. Yes, she'd a bit of a temper, and on occasion, the Order received the brunt of it, but she was loyal and hard working. Marlene had clearly been the light of her life; her eyes were dark with Marlene now gone. Months later, she was still grieving. Remus hoped he wouldn't meet such a fate.

"What is your relationship to Sirius Black," Vargas asked.

"I knew him in school," Dorcas said, a shrug of her shoulders accompanying the monotonous ring of her voice. "I joined the Order a bit after him."

"Would you consider him a friend," Vargas asked, an inflection in his tone Remus didn't like.

Again, Dorcas shrugged, "Acquaintances is preferable."

Remus felt his stomach clench, his butt on the edge of his own seat. Sirius was depending on these positive testimonies, and if Dorcas allowed her bitterness to get the better of her now, it might have been detrimental. If only Remus could tell her that it wasn't Sirius' fault – he didn't kill Marlene. Perhaps when someone dies whom you love, you blame the world regardless. Remus hoped he never found out.

"Why would you say that," Varga said.

Dorcas sighed, "We never spent much time together, really. He spends most of his time with the Potters or Remus."

"Because he's a homosexual?"

A collective gasp flushed over the room, and Remus' heart plummeted. Eyes flickered between Sirius on the floor and a blushing Remus fervently; they whispered their shared disgust with one another. Remus couldn't even bring himself to look his father in the eye, let alone anyone else who'd been just as shocked at their relationship.

He shouldn't have been ashamed; most everyone knew about his feelings for Sirius by now. Members of the Order, old friends from Hogwarts, and even a few Muggles who passed them on the street as they held hands. For many who knew him, there was no shock factor upon listening to Varga's words.

Yet still, he felt appalled with himself. His skin felt slick with sin and fire, and he wished desperately to get rid of it. Judgemental eyes bored into his skull from every angle, and the only possible thing to do was sink into the pit of his chair and beg to disappear. Remus hated himself for feeling even an ounce of humiliation for his relationship with Sirius; he loved him, Goddamnit! But that didn't soothe the burn in his chest as he felt his father's glower from behind. Nothing would fix that ache.

"Why does that matter," Dorcas spat.

"You say he spent most of his time with Remus Lupin, correct?"

Dorcas refused to acknowledge these accusations, settling for her own testimony.

"For the record, Sirius can be an arrogant git," she said. "I won't deny that. But that doesn't erase the fact that underneath that layer of an arsehole he perpetuates, he's genuinely a good person and would do _anything_ in the world for his family. Even if it meant dying for their cause. Anyone who knows Sirius would know that, and him being gay doesn't change a fucking thing."

Remus watched as Sirius smiled at Dorcas, suddenly proud of her steadfastness and honesty. He would've preferred this testimony over some "holier than thou" spiel about how wonderful Sirius is. They needed to show his true colors with as much integrity as possible; even the bad parts about him.

"But his lover is a Werewolf, right," Varga took control of the audience once again, and Remus dreaded the words. "Voldemort's second in command is rumored to be the very monster that turned Remus Lupin. Doesn't that –"

"Bother me? No," Dorcas said. "I've known Remus for upwards of five years, and he's done nothing to hurt anyone."

"Even during transformations?"

Dorcas fumed, " _Especially_ during transformations. They take precautions to ensure he doesn't hurt anyone including himself. Pardon me, but isn't this supposed to be about Sirius and not someone else?"

Vargas questioned her for only a moment longer – questions about the Order and the leak. When asked about her own suspicions, Dorcas remained quite vague and, if only a little, vindictive. Remus knew who she'd really thought was to blame for the hole in the Order, but declaring it in the middle of a murder trial would be reckless and thoughtless for all involved. Dorcas may have been raging, but she wasn't stupid. He sent her a small gesture of appreciation, a pat on the knee for her efforts.

Dorcas left him with no response.

"Calling James Potter to the stand," Crouch said.

Remus' stomach churned. No one had notified the Ministry of James and Lily's departure to St. Mungo's. He exchanged a worried glance with McGonagall in hopes she'd have the answer he searched for. What could they do? Without his very own brother to testify for him – the one defense that might have saved him from conviction – their case was all the more vulnerable to attacks from the Ministry. They needed James but were left with no other option than to pull him from the testimony.

Remus opened his mouth to speak, to inform Crouch that James was called on important business elsewhere when Dumbledore spoke, "Mr. and Mrs. Potter will be unable to give their testimonies at this time."

Crouch looked incredulous, offended that anyone thought to derail his very own trial. Members of the Wizengamot snickered with one another as Dumbledore clasped his hands gently over his torso.

"Under what pretenses!"

"His wife is currently giving birth to their firstborn son," he explained. "I won't speak on behalf of the audience, but I don't think a wailing woman would be able to testify much for anyone."

Many people agreed, and some even looked proud that the heroes of the Order – James and Lily Potter – were blessed with such an event. Crouch's expression softened into something unreadable; perhaps it was an annoyance, or maybe aloofness? The hardliner was tough to the bone and gave no mercy to his prisoners. Remus wondered if he was capable of pity at least. He almost asked if Dumbledore himself could step in for James! He was adept in twisting his words to wrap the crowd around his finger; with his testimony, Remus could taste Sirius' freedom from afar.

Crouch sniffed, "Then we'll be moving on. Calling Dr. Joycelin Slade to the stand."

It'd been years since he'd seen his old professor. At least, it felt like so. Sirius only mentioned her in passing conversations, never divulging his appointments with her or anything of the sort. Her prominence in Remus' life had faded since their years at Hogwarts, and what she would say about Sirius was beyond him.

She'd grown taller since he last saw her, towering over Dumbledore and Varga like a building on the horizon. She dawned her colorful scarves and bright jewelry – things Remus had always adored about her. In a room full of similar faces, shapes, and colors, she stood out in the best of ways. It was refreshing to see someone as vibrant and vivacious as her, even in their current circumstances.

If there was anyone in that room, besides Remus, who wanted what was best for Sirius, it would've been Slade. They had to have developed some sort of positive relationship in the five years they'd worked together. There was no way it all could've dissipated so quickly.

"What is your relationship to the accused," Varga jumped right into questioning, barely letting the woman sit down before diving right in.

"I was his Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher during his first year at Hogwarts – 1971 – and then I became his psychiatrist and case manager in the adoption process," she said.

Remus admired her stoic expression; many of the testifiers had either been too scared of Varga to look him in the eye or too busy fawning over him to really pay much attention to his questions. Slade, on the other hand, appeared unbothered and unscathed by his scalding tone.

"Could you give us your assessment of Sirius Black in the time that you've known him," Varga asked. "From a purely medical standpoint."

Slade shifted her weight in the chair, sparing a glance at her old patient. Remus could see it in her eyes – the guilt. He wondered if she blamed herself for the way things turned out, questioned whether or not she'd truly tried her hardest when treating him. If he were in her shoes, he knew that there'd be nothing but shame on his shoulders knowing that, maybe, he hadn't done enough.

"When I first began treating Sirius Black, he displayed symptoms of neurosis," she said.

"Is that a Muggle term?"

She nodded, "Yes. When diagnosing someone who displays symptoms of neurosis, you look for behavioral cues such as stress, depression, obsessive behavior, but no real loss of touch with reality. Neurotic behavior is an automatic and unconscious effort to manage deep anxiety."

Remus blanched. He'd never known Sirius' diagnosis, always assuming that his trauma was just that – trauma. It was foolhardy, in hindsight, to think that all the abuse and suffering he'd endured would have no psychological effects. In fact, this diagnosis would explain plenty of his behaviors after leaving Grimmauld Place. It was now Remus' turn to feel ashamed and guilty of his own behavior; Sirius was struggling with a disease and he hadn't even asked or showed he cared.

"How did you come to this conclusion," Varga asked.

"During his intake with the Potter's present, Sirius described to me what Muggles would call child abuse and negligence on both Walburga and Orion Black's part," Slade announced.

"But that goes against every single statement the Ministry has provided," Varga hissed. "Walburga and Orion Black lo—"

"Clearly treated their eldest son with subhuman respect and decency, going as far to physically harm him under certain, if not ridiculous, circumstances," she interrupted. "Might I ask for a bit of an exhibit, Mr. Crouch?"

Their judge, an old man who probably held respect for the blood status Walburga and Orion perpetuated, looked both unamused and in disbelief, someone would even begin to make such accusatory remarks. He sputtered wildly.

"What could you possibly show us to prove such outlandish and outright offensive defamation," he said.

Slade turned her attention toward Sirius, looking apologetic in the worst of ways. Remus felt his blood run cold; this trial was a rollercoaster full of emotions and plunges he hadn't prepared for. What felt like smooth sailing, in the beginning, was nothing but turbulence and rocky waters now as their defense crumbled before his eyes. What she was asking of Sirius, albeit silent and vague, was wrong. It was wrong and humiliating, and he knew that Sirius would detest such an act! Who wouldn't?

Nevertheless, their situation was in dire need of rescuing, and perhaps the regaling of Sirius' abuse would win over the Wizengamot? Would it put in the word and secure his release? Would Sirius even stoop so low as to remove his socks and shoes, his blazer and button-up?

"Mr. Black, proceed," Crouch said.

Sirius' face contorted in pain; Remus' heart clenched. He could only imagine the mortification and vulnerability thrust onto Sirius. Hundreds of people would watch as he fleshed out the depths of his memories and past. It seemed small and minute to the average person. How difficult could it have been to just display the scars? But it was more than that to him. It was allowing everyone to see that he was, in fact, weak on some occasions, helpless almost, and if there was one thing Sirius hated more than pity, it was feeling helpless.

Sirius' eyes landed on Remus, his silent question ringing for a thousand miles in their distance. He asked if he must – was this necessary? There'd not been a clear answer in a time like that, and it was all Remus could do to simply nod. There would be time for doubts and blame later; this was all they had left — it might have been the only thing to land his freedom. It was a risk they needed to take.

Sirius stiffened as they removed his shackles with unveiled spite. He flinched every so often, unsure for the first time in the trial.

"This is ridiculous," Varga said, throwing his hands up in bemusement.

"Silence," Crouch spat. "I want to see this."

As if Sirius was an attraction at a zoo. Remus despised the way the onlookers bit their lips, excited for the revelation. It made him sick to his stomach how everyone in the room, even those they'd known for years, slid to the edges of their seats to get a better look at the trauma Slade mentioned.

Sirius removed his shoes first, face red. That curtain of hair he'd once used as a shield was gone – his embarrassment written plainly for all to see. Remus caught the glimmer of tears in his eyes, and something inside of him snapped. Nothing could be done lest he ruins their chance, but Remus could only just control the urge to lunge at Varga, at Crouch, at Slade for even suggesting such vulnerability.

A woman in the front, aghast at the sight, gasped loudly, triggering the murmurs in the room to intensify. Remus had seen those scars so often that it felt almost normal, and there laid the problem. It wasn't at all normal for someone to have abrasions from their heel to their toes. It wasn't normal for their palms to be scarred, hardly leaving the trace of a fingerprint. None of this – none of what Sirius had gone through – was normal. Hopefully, everyone else would realize that.

Sirius revealed his palms, the true victims in this story. The scars that had once been angry and pink had faded into a jaded cream, puffy, and sensitive on occasion. They didn't sting when he touched much of anything unless it was warm in which he would wince for only a fraction of a second. Sirius did his best to keep his hands face down lest someone ask prying questions, but it didn't seem like he had much of a choice that day.

The rage had been written across his features; his cheeks were stained red, eyebrows crossed harshly, and his jaw ticked with unspoken words – words that were unprintable no doubt.

"How did he receive these marks," Varga whispered. Even he was shocked at the brutal scars left by Walburga.

"Walburga Black owned rulers and switches," Slade said, malice lacing her words. "Whenever Sirius acted out, she would punish him. This was a recurring incident that trails all the way back to his early childhood."

"How can we be sure Walburga Black committed such a travesty?"

Slade scoffed, "Pardon me, but I don't think a toddler would beat his own hands and feet to a bloody pulp for fun, Mr. Varga."

Sirius replaced his shoes and socks, allowing his ankles to be shackled once more with no protest. He stared forward, not even granting Varga the pleasantry of his glare.

"Moving on," Varga swallowed. "What else can you tell us about Sirius' mental health?"

"Well, after we began treatment, I saw positive results," she said. "Sirius suffered from a chronic case of instability both at home and neurologically. Neurosis impacts the way we think and feel, not only about ourselves but for others as well. Those diagnosed could have difficulty managing emotions and patterns of unstable relationships."

Varga began pacing, a glint in his eye that left Remus feeling antsy, "So, you mean to tell me that, Mr. Black's ailment could lead to negative behaviors that he cannot 'manage'? Destructive behaviors?"

Slade furrowed her brows, "If not treated, yes. But I —"

"So, you're telling the court that Mr. Black's inefficiency when dealing with strong emotions could impact the way he acts and reacts," Varga urged, his eyes boring holes into Slade.

She used a stern tone, reinforcing her stance, "If not treated, Mr. Varga, but I —"

"Mr. Black has a history of violent behavior, does he not?

Slade blinked rapidly, eyes searching for an answer to give because God knew she didn't want to give her own.

"No — I — Now I never said," she began, but Varga was quicker.

"Did he not assault his own brother the night his mother and father were mysteriously murdered," he nearly shouted. "He's yet to recover, Dr. Slade! What kind of brother – a brother who's supposedly gone through years of torture and suffering – beats his own brother to near-death!?"

Slade uncrossed her legs, the calm exterior melting before everyone's eyes.

She sputtered, "When those afflicted with neurosis undergo high levels of stress they —"

"How long has it been since your last session with the accused?"

Sirius' head snapped up, his eyes glued on Slade. Remus' body clenched, his heart pounding in his chest. It had been nearly a year since his last visit, and things had only gone downhill. Slade couldn't lie about his appointment skipping; there was no doubt the court had access to such records. Varga was playing a game only the Ministry could win, and the outcome was looming over Remus' head.

"How could you possibly draw these conclusions, Dr. Slade, when Sirius hasn't undergone any type of evaluation in over a year," he smirked. "What I gather from your rather vague diagnosis is that Mr. Black has a history of instability, yes, but also the inability to control himself. Now, Dr. Slade, I must ask you one last question."

Remus' fists were clenched beyond a reasonable measure, his knuckles white and aching. Blood nearly poured down his throat from his cheeks and lips – the biting was incessant! He couldn't stand another second of this – the door was nearby. All he had to do was stand up and walk out, but Sirius needed him there! It was too much to handle; he couldn't take it. Sirius. Fuck, Sirius was going to go to Azkaban and there was nothing Remus could do to stop it – he just knew it was going to happen. Damn it, he couldn't breathe – he couldn't fucking breathe. No. No, don't assume. He couldn't assume. Fuck, it was all his fault. He should've been there. Why was it so stuffy? Why was blood dripping down his chin? Why couldn't Sirius just be normal!

"In your medical opinion, would you consider Mr. Black capable of violent behavior under the circumstances he was under in April of this year," Varga purred. "Yes or no, Dr. Slade."

No. Remus knew the answer – it was bloody no. No. No. No. No.

Slade inhaled deeply, defeat in her eyes as she mumbled, "Yes. Yes, I would."

Crouch screwed up his nose, eyes lit with glory. Remus' eyes flickered to different faces in the crowd, but they were all blurring together. There was no way he could testify – not in this state. His knee bounced rapidly, the heel-clicking against the marble floor. The sounds – the whispers and chatter – was driving him mad. He nearly ripped his fucking hair out!

Crouch straightened his posture, "I've heard enough. In the case of the People of Wizarding Britain versus prisoner 127-SOB-81: Sirius Orion Black, I find the accused guilty of all charges."

Remus jumped to his feet, "No!"

The crowd erupted – a mixture of cheers and protests swelling in the air.

"I sentence you, Mr. Black, to life in Azkaban," Crouch slammed his gavel on his table, collecting his things coolly and exiting.

Remus fumbled toward the center of the room, anxious to get to Sirius before the guards did. Some twisted part of his heart believed they could escape the Ministry together and live off of Sirius' fortune in secrecy for the remainder of their lives. It convinced him that none of this had ever happened – that he wasn't leaving.

He couldn't leave.

Sirius flailed his legs as guards restrained him, his voice barely audible over the chaos of the crowd, "Remus! Don't let them take me. Give me the Veritaserum – anything. Remus!"

"Sirius," he called. "Sirius, no!"

"I didn't fucking do it," Sirius cried out, tears staining his cheeks. "Give me the serum!"

Remus didn't get very far before his own father wrestled him away; it was no use. Lyall was three times his size with enough muscle to snap his neck. Still, he fought the grip, inching closer to Sirius, so he thought.

And while he never made it close enough to grasp his hand, to pull him free and flee the scene, Sirius' cries could be heard from miles away, even as the door closed behind him.

_I didn't do it._

_No._

_Remus._


	7. In Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Your face._
> 
> _Your warmth._
> 
> _Your shoulder._
> 
> _Where did they go?"_
> 
> _-via_ Marina Tsvetaeva, from "Epitaph," Bride of Ice: New Selected Poems

St. Mungo's Hospital, June 1980

Remus held his face in his hands, palms forced against his eyes to stop the tears. The pressure was unbearable; stars speckled beneath his closed eyelids. They were sore and chapped, but the crying was worse. It wasn't only his eyes that stung as he wept. His chest heaved violently, lungs rattling behind his ribs. The contents of his stomach churned with every trembling sob, and his bones were tired from holding him upright. Yet, it seemed worth the pain to keep himself from crying a moment longer.

His throat couldn't take it anymore. If he wailed once more, his vocal cords would surely break off. The urge to cry out was almost unbearable; it took every fiber of control left inside of his heart to keep from making a scene. The waiting room felt vacant, yet it was not. An older woman with the Black Cat Flu had been hacking up hairballs since his arrival, and a little boy and his mother were waiting on consultation as he vomited slugs into a bucket, leaving only Remus in the corner with not a single distraction from the hours before.

It was painful to think about, yet Remus couldn't push the fresh memory from the forefront of his mind. He'd been so sure of Sirius' freedom – so confident in their case – and he stood the fool now. Where did it all begin falling apart? Who was at fault? Remus wanted to take all of the blame – because it was his fault.

Why was he never there when Sirius needed him most? Why did he always run? For years, instead of growing a pair and facing the music, Remus dodged bullets and avoided risks; his heart was too bloody scared of rejection and suffering even to give what they had a fighting chance, and now look where Sirius was! He'd be spending the rest of his life rotting away in a dingy prison cell without his family, without a will.

And it was Remus' fault. All of it.

Tears trickled into the creases of his palms, warm and flaccid against his dry skin. His lashes were damp and stuck to his hands, but he didn't give a damn. It was weak to cry in public; he'd held himself together as long as he could. Just a few moments longer, he told himself, and James would appear with all the right things to say – all the wise words in the world. That much Remus was sure of. James would make all of this chaos – all of this pain – make some sort of sense. They'd come up with a master plan to appeal the court, and this time they'd do more research. This time they'd be prepared for Varga. They'd do better for Sirius.

Remus wouldn't give up. He couldn't. Sirius would've died if it meant seeing Remus' justification, and Remus would do the same in a heartbeat. If it took days, weeks, months, even years, Remus wouldn't rest until he saw Sirius as a free man again. Despite knowing the difficulties present, and all the pain that will come along the way, Remus vowed to set Sirius free.

He owed him that much after all that had happened.

Hours passed before anything eventful occurred, but Remus didn't notice much. The afternoon bled into the evening, and people came and went like seasons. The sun plunged behind the skyline, leaving the waiting room bleak and washed out. An old rerun of The Brady Bunch was whirring in the background – static to Remus' ears. Crying children, wailing women, and moaning men all passed by Remus, yet he couldn't bring his eyes to leave the floor; the tiles weren't fascinating.

Finally, after hours of weeping, there were no more tears to cry. Remus wanted to – fuck he wanted to cry for decades – but, even with all the energy he could muster, his body refused to shed one more tear. Inside, he was fracturing; his heart burned, and not in the pleasant type of way. It burned with hatred and fury, desperation, and longing, but most of all, it burned with guilt.

Remus convinced himself he didn't need to cry. He straightened his posture and stiffened his neck; the pain was only in his head. If he didn't acknowledge it, then it wouldn't affect him. The brutal realization that had knocked him on his feet was being swallowed bit by bit, and Remus found it much easier to pretend nothing had happened at all. Sirius was just late, and Peter was off grabbing a bite to eat for them all once the chaos subdued. In a few moments, they'd all walk in to meet baby Harry.

Remus would be Moomy, and Sirius would be Dadfoot. Just like they planned.

"Remus," he thought he'd heard, but couldn't pull himself into the present. "Remus."

A pair of hands took him by the shoulders, yanking him out of his haze. His vision, tunneled from all the crying and staring, took time to adjust to the pale light of the midnight sun. How long had he waited? A new show had begun, the Brady Bunch was forgotten. Remus seemed to be the only guest left in the waiting room, the chairs surrounding him now empty and hollow.

James stood before him. His wild, black hair was pulled away from his face, glasses askew. Sweat dripped from his hairline, eyebrows bushy, and cross. Remus hardly recognized James in such a catatonic state; he didn't even know where to begin. James' eyes gazed upon him, disturbed and frantic, but what about? Remus didn't even know what to say.

The question loomed in the air, an unspoken plea for it to all be a mistake.

"Rem," James whispered, looking at Remus with frenzied hazel eyes.

His lips quivered, and Remus felt what was left in his chest wither. There was no lying, no twisting the truth anymore. Sirius' absence in the waiting room gave a despondent answer to James' silent pleas.

Tears swelled in James' eyes, his glasses fogging with emotions unspoken. He pulled Remus into his arms, stroking his hair as his friend wept into his shoulder. They'd never been as close with each other as they were to Sirius. They didn't always agree on things. But in that moment, they were in the same boat – a boat with an empty seat and a man overboard the waves had swallowed. Both without their best friend. Both without Sirius.

"James," Remus sobbed. His chest shuddered with uncontrollable rage and misery. "I – I can't —" he whimpered —"Sirius. He's g- James!"

"Remus," James muttered, "you've got to—"

Remus felt his knees buckle as he cried out, James' arms wrapping around his limp body as he whimpered. Snot dribbled from his nose onto his blazer, and the tears he'd once thought gone were making their grand appearance yet again, but he didn't give a damn.

Fuck, it all hurt so much. Heartbreak wasn't supposed to feel like this; it was supposed to be manageable. Whatever was swelling in his chest – the monster of emotions growing deeper and wider by the very second – threatened his entire existence. This was not manageable. There was little else to do but cry and hyperventilate. Time for anything else was simpl gone.

He was thankful for James' support – his soothing, yet empty, reassurance and the gentle stroke of his hand through his hair — because without it, he might have fractured on the waiting room floor.

Despite all this, it felt as if it would never be any better than this.

The pain was consuming him all at once; he fought against his heart – begged it to silence for the moment at least. This was Harry's moment. This was the Potter's moment. He was taking this beautiful memory away from them with his grief, nonetheless he couldn't help himself.

Sirius was gone. There was no master plan. There would be no appeal. There would be no grand escape to tell Harry of years later. No, Sirius would spend the rest of his life in Azkaban, and Remus would be forced to live with it. What would he do without him? Who would he have? With whom would he grow old with? Who would banter with him? Who would love him despite all his faults, and he love the same?

Only Sirius could fill his heart, and now it was folding in on itself until it was no longer a part of this life.

He didn't even get to say goodbye.


	8. August.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You didn't come back._
> 
> _I thought you would come back."_
> 
> _-via_ Ben Maxfield

_England, August 1980_


	9. September.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"As the moon begins to brighten the night_
> 
> _know that I miss you when I look upright._
> 
> _Your like a shining star — beautiful and bright_
> 
> _but I have no wings to reach you - my biggest plight."_
> 
> _-via_ AK

_England, September 1980_


	10. October.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"The pain stayed._
> 
> _Even when you didn't."_
> 
> _-via_ Ben Maxfield

_England, October 1980_


	11. November.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Don't let me lose you._
> 
> _Let me come back to you._
> 
> _Come back to me."_
> 
> _-via_ Dylan Thomas, from a letter to Caitlin Thomas wr. c. February 1948

_Manchester, November 1980_

It would be his birthday soon, Remus remembered.

He would have been 21.

Remus pulled the blanket over his shoulders, the fading scent of Sirius engulfing his shivering body. He would worry about that later. The sun was still shining, and the birds were chirping for hours.

Sleep. He needed sleep. Sleep meant dreams, and dreams always held memories of _him._

Anything to see him one more time.


	12. Wallow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Too many things have happened_
> 
> _That weren't supposed to happen,_
> 
> _And what was supposed to come about_
> 
> _Has not."_
> 
> _-via_ Wislawa Szymborska, from "The Century's Decline," View with a Grain of Sand: Selected Poems

Manchester, November 1980

Remus wrapped himself in an excess number of blankets from the linen closet in hopes it would be enough to thaw him. Something inside of his brain told him that if he worried about the external – the chills of November or the overwhelming hunger – then it would serve as a distraction from the internal. If he busied himself with cleaning and upkeeping, preparing for Sirius' inevitable return, later, his treacherous conscience wouldn't remind him of the vacancy within him.

The flat was freezing; Remus couldn't be bothered to cast a warming charm or even light a fire. It was much more comfortable, in fact, to hole himself up in the bedroom underneath mounds of comforters and sheets. Then, he didn't have to trouble himself with much else. On occasion, he would be sure to shut the windows just a smidge tighter or to figure out if there'd been a draft from the chimney or thresholds. Otherwise, his only movements consisted of using the restroom or finding a more comfortable position to wallow in.

His body betrayed him, protesting his fasting with disdain, but he didn't care. Eating was practically impossible in those days. Remus' crying spells were strenuous on his body, especially his stomach, and its contents almost always ended up in the toilet. Besides, he wasn't hungry, at least not very often. Food was appalling; for the first time in his life, the scent of chocolate made him gag – he'd tried it. Nothing would do for his stomach, not even a bit of ginger ale to soothe its churning.

Nevertheless, it didn't matter.

Remus didn't want to eat. He didn't want to check for drafts or wash his clothes or answer Lily's incessant letters. No, Remus tried to bury himself in what little he had left of Sirius and die. Yes, _die._ The pain was practically unbearable. No matter what he did or where he went, he couldn't escape the overwhelming sorrow. Without sleep, there was nothing but his own mind to taunt him – remind him – of every stumble and misfire. It recounted each and every mistake along the way and played it on a record with no skips or stops. With it, there came nightmares of all sorts and shades. Death, loss, anger, transformations, lies, traitors – they all haunted him.

Yet, Sirius' face was at the forefront of the battle.

_Remus. Don't let them take me._

Hot tears welled in Remus' eyes, but he couldn't be bothered to hold them back. The hunger and exhaustion from weeks of moping drained him. He was numb at best; he preferred this limbo to the hysterical crying that seemed to overcome him at every corner. At least when he was emotionless, he could force out the heartbreak – place it on the back burner – and give himself a moment to breathe, albeit shallow and shaky.

These phases of grief passed unevenly. Some moments were painful, immersed in memories and fates, not even magic could undo it. In contrast, others were timeless, dragging lulls that lasted for what felt like centuries. Nothing seemed to pull him from his stupor.

Not even Harry.

Remus had yet to see the child. All those months ago at St. Mungo's were marked by heartache and loss. Remus was so overcome with misery that Harry had been, sadly, the least of his worries. It was just too agonizing – too fresh. Seeing Harry might have unraveled what little composure rested within him. He couldn't bring himself to break the news to Lily. So, Remus did what he does best and ran, escaping to the only thing he had left of his lover: his flat. The doors were bolted, the were shades drawn, and the lights were doused. No signs of life were present within the confines of the flat, and it was a wonder Remus hadn't keeled over by then.

Here's for hoping.

Guilt struck his heart; another weight to rest on his chest. Remus just couldn't raise himself out of bed – not even for himself. In fact, he only ever left Sirius' bed to tend to himself. Showers were miserable as the smell of his bloody body wash was inescapable. Treks into the kitchen were haunted by photographs and distant, jaded memories. The only safe place had been the bed; it was there Remus could lose himself in an endless void and practically disappear from the face of the earth.

That's what he wanted, wasn't it? To disappear?

A knocking sounded at the door downstairs, heavy and harsh. There'd been a few visitors the first weeks after the trial – Moody, Dumbledore, Minerva, and the likes. Eventually, Remus was forced to cast security charms on the flat to ensure none of them could magic themselves inside to disturb him. He didn't want to be bothered by their nattering or pity. Not even Lily or James were welcomed; Remus feared their bliss might have collided with his isolation, leaving them with a catastrophic effect.

The knocking continued for minutes, unyielding and unapologetic. It was a game Remus was all too used to by then. Moody once knocked for over an hour straight, shouting about his abandonment and the war – how Remus left them hanging in the height of the battle. Nevertheless, Remus didn't give a jot. They could all knock and scream and shout for the rest of his miserable life; it wouldn't rouse him from the apathy he'd locked in place. To hell with all of them and their expectations.

Several minutes passed, and the pounding at the door grew louder and more frenzied by the second. They switched between their fist and the palm of their hand sporadically, and Remus' annoyance was rearing its ugly head in his stomach.

Couldn't they all just leave him fucking be! For nearly three years, he'd dedicated his life to the cause – to the Order. Remus risked life and limb daily for them all. His missions to Werewolf dens, the constant dueling with Death Eaters, the treachery – all of it – and this is how they repay him? Did they want more? How could they want anything else from him? The entirety of his adulthood had been marked by death and tragedy. This never-ending loop fucked him over time and time again. Here they were, asking something else of him.

He couldn't take it anymore!

Remus threw the blankets off of his body, blood heating to dangerous levels. A sweat broke out on his upper lip as he snarled. The echoes of his stomping shook the flat; pictures tremored on the drywall. Even then, the knocking never ceased. Remus' heartbeat wildly within his rib cage, each bone fractured from the pressure, but he didn't seem to notice. Tunnel vision ensued, and all he could worry about was telling whoever the hell had been bothering him to bugger off.

At the door, he ripped apart the locks, jerking chains and turning hinges aggressively. His fingers were stiff, frigid from the icy temperature of the flat, and struggled momentarily. Remus cursed himself and the bloody door – had to go making things difficult.

He yanked open the door, "What the fuck do you want!"

Lily Potter, looking as prim as ever, scowled. Under any other circumstance, Remus might have felt ashamed to have greeted an old friend the way he did, especially if that friend had been Lily. She'd been nothing but gracious to him, but in his current mood, he hardly cared at all. Lily waltzed over to his home and banged on his door – at eleven o'clock at night of all hours. Perhaps she deserved a bit of his wrath?

"I want you to get out of this house, Remus," she hissed, shoving past him.

He sputtered wildly, affronted that she'd just invite herself into – into Sirius' – no, into his own – into their home! How could she? Remus followed her, glaring into the back of her head as she paced the floor in front of him. His eyes were careful and quick, making sure she didn't mess anything up – put anything out of place. Lily, however, seemed more concerned with other things.

"You've not left this house in _three months_ , Remus," she said.

"I know that," he replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

He caught a whiff of his own scent, a nostril full of must and decay, and nearly gagged. Still, he kept his face passive and neutral, hoping to veer Lily off of her high horse. She glowered at him, plucked eyebrows lowered dangerously.

"Then why aren't you doing anything about it," she asked. "You couldn't possibly want to stay holed up in here!"

Remus winced, stung by the words leaving Lily's mouth. Why wouldn't he want to be in Sirius' apartment? There was everything he needed in there, and more. Lily couldn't understand where he was coming from. Perhaps if she'd experienced such a deep wound as this – something so agonizing as losing the love of your life – then she'd maybe understand his predicament.

Remus wanted to stay inside the flat for as long as it took to roll over and die. If that meant weeks, months, or, regretfully, years, then shit, he'd do it. At least in the flat, there were remnants of better times, even if those remnants brought him to repulsive tears time and time again. What right did she have to judge him? This was how he would cope until his heart gave out; why did she have to pry?

"Maybe I do," Remus challenged, eyes dark.

Lily scoffed, looking around at the state of the flat. The downstairs was left alone in practically every way. Hardly anything had moved from where Sirius had left it; every picture and teacup sat in its rightful place. Remus never came downstairs, leaving only the dust to occupy the vacancies. There was nothing to do; the bedroom was his domain, as it had the most "Sirius-ness" in the entire house. His clothes, his cologne, his sheets, his sketchbook – everything that Remus needed was upstairs. Hopefully, Lily would remain on the first floor; her reaction to the upstairs might have differed a bit.

"Why," she asked. "Why would you want to stay in here when there's a perfectly good world to enjoy outside!"

Remus' jaw went slack, his eyes widened in incredulity.

"Perfectly good," he repeated. "Perfectly good? How the hell could I enjoy the world without –"

"Remus, you cannot spend the rest of your life obsessing over Sirius," Lily interrupted him. "That's not what he would want."

Remus took a dangerous step forward, a glint of anger present in his tired eyes.

"And how the hell would you know what he would want, eh," he growled.

She closed the gap between them, only inches away from his grimy face.

"He would want you to be happy," she said. "Not wasting away in here."

"Well, it's too bad he isn't here to stop me," Remus said, strolling back upstairs. "Show yourself out, please."

"You're selfish," Lily screamed, voice shrill and frantic. "Both of you are so selfish! You haven't once come to see James or me for fuck sake. You haven't even come to see your Godson, Remus."

"It's for your own good," Remus said at the top of the stairs, back to Lily.

"Have you ever been reading my letters," she asked.

Remus blanched but was quite thankful she couldn't see his face. A pile of letters had accumulated on his desk, all from different senders. Alice, James, Lily, Moody, Lyall, Dumbledore, Dorcas – all of them had tried getting in touch with him since his abrupt isolation methods. Even so, he ignored them all. Remus didn't care what any of them had to say. None of them, or their requests, were worth his Goddamn time. He was selfish? What about the rest of them?

"No."

Lily sighed, "Fleamont and Euphemia died in September."

Remus stared down at his feet, waiting for the news to punch him in the gut. Wasn't that supposed to happen when loved ones passed? Losing Sirius was a shot in the face, and watching Marlene get blown to bits was horrific, but Euphemia and Fleamont? Why didn't he feel anything – why did this not faze him? The feeling of dread, pain, and misfortune that almost always accompanies death was absent. They deserved more than his hollow condolences and half-hearted apologies, but what more could he give? All of his energy had been given to Sirius.

"I'm sorry for –"

"No, you aren't," Lily snapped. "Fleamont caused you a mound of trouble, and you've blamed him for every inconvenience following Julienne. You aren't sorry."

What use was it fighting back? She was entirely right. Remus despised Fleamont in recent years for everything he'd said and done. Lies, betrayal, and coercion were all themes in the Order, and Fleamont stooped so low as to take part in all of it was sickening. Yes, Remus resented a man he'd once considered a father. In fact, he felt the corners of his mouth twitch in approval. He knew that this was all in spite; the Wolf was taking advantage of his vulnerability, making him act on the urges he'd done his best to bury.

Fleamont didn't deserve to die; no one did. However, those wise words did little to smother the rejoice in the back of his mind.

"What do you want me to say, Lily," Remus groaned, turning to face her with vacant eyes.

"I want you to console your best friend," she demanded. "I want you to stop throwing this pity party for yourself and actually acknowledge that people are trying to be there for you."

"Oh, because both of you tried so hard to comfort me," Remus spat.

Lily narrowed her eyes, a shade of red tinting her face, "I had just given birth, Remus. My son needed me, just like –"

"Just like you and James did," Remus finished her sentence. "You know who else needed us? Sirius. Sirius did, and we failed him. I failed him, and I have to live with that for the rest of my life. Excuse me if that's a little difficult to swallow."

Lily threw her hands into the air; her composure was slipping.

"How do you think James feels, Remus," she said. "He wasn't even there."

"Yes, because you two decided to fuck like rabbits," Remus snarled. "That's your own fault."

Lily stared at him with disbelief etched into her features. They seldom argued, and when they did, each was careful not to cross boundaries. Yet, Remus had pushed the limit and trekked into territory – into no man's land. There was no return from a jab like that, something so sharp and serrated. It cut Lily deeply, and he wasn't sure if she'd ever recover from such a wound.

"Fine," she spat. "Stay here and rot."

"I will," Remus said.

Lily took one last look at her friend, contempt and hatred evident in her stare. She didn't bother Remus; she could glower all she wanted to. At least she was leaving, never to return most likely. A part of Remus, the man he'd once been, ached to apologize and right this wrong. It wasn't their fault at all she'd given birth, and it wasn't right to rejoice at Fleamont's death.

But the Wolf was taking over and removing every last bit of his humanity.

At least that's what Remus told himself if only to sleep a little better at night.


	13. Obliviate.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I emptied my heart to make a home for you,_
> 
> _and now there is nothing left."_
> 
> _-via_ Ben Maxfield

_Manchester, January 1981_

Remus ignored the whiskey-baited spit trickling down his neck. His eyes followed the path of the ceiling fan's wings – an infinite circle with no escape. Round and round it went, over and over again; it never stopped! From the moment the sun had risen – had it even raised? – to the falling of night, it just… kept going. When would it stop? Maybe if he blinked, it would take a nap?

Remus screwed his eyes shut, stars dancing wildly across his sore eyelids. It was quite lovely, actually, to close them. The harshness of the sunset had nearly melted his retinas. However, all the fire whiskey had gone not only to his head, but also his muscles, and he couldn't find an ounce of energy within him to move. It didn't matter anyway. Sirius' couch was comfortable enough.

Yes, sweet and soft with fluffy cushions that smelled just like him. At least, they used to. Remus had spent so many afternoons lounging that his favorite "Sirius scent" was wearing off, replaced with his foul odor instead.

It didn't matter, though. As long as Remus drank, he couldn't be bothered with the stench in the flat. He couldn't be bothered with anything but the fan.

Oh, the fan!

He pried his eyes open; still, it went around in a loop, wings bleeding into one another till it became another jumbled silhouette in his vision. Jaw-slacked and lethargic, he lifted the bottle of Fire Whiskey to his chapped lips. It was heavy and pulled his arm downward; his muscles screamed in protest. Every fiber of being in his body begged for sleep, for a reprieve; it pleaded for a break from the drinking, but he didn't listen. Knocking his head back, Remus swallowed a mouthful of liquor.

The shit tasted God awful; he'd never know why some drank it for the taste. He'd much rather chew on an old car battery than savor the flavor of Fire Whiskey. It would've been an improvement from the foul burn in his throat.

Nevertheless, Remus wasn't drinking for fun. He wasn't letting loose with friends and family on New Year's. No, Remus was getting pissed in Sirius' flat for the fourth consecutive month to drown out the jarring pain. He felt it everywhere, day in and day out from his insides to his outsides, his head to his toes. Nothing else seemed to rescue him from this torture.

Without liquor, he was left vulnerable to his thoughts and memories. Without it, he was defenseless against his mind and his heart, and both seemed keen on torturing him with unanswered questions and unreasonable doubts. Without it, he spent hours weeping into bed pillows and old clothes that once held Sirius' cologne. After so many months of wear and tear, groping and embracing, they'd lost their magic, and Remus could only recognize the smell of his neglect.

Besides, with alcohol, he could focus on other things like the fan. It didn't remind him much of anything. Not Harry or Sirius or the look on Lily's face in November. It didn't have letters scrawled all over it like the parchments in the fireplace, nor did it tell him to leave the house more often and forget about Sirius.

The fan was silent and steadfast, cooling the sweat dripping down his body from all the screaming and crying. Remus liked the fan. Perhaps it was his favorite thing inside the entire flat. More than anything, he enjoyed its company. The whirring, mechanical buzz drowned out his ramblings. The last thing he wanted to hear was the sound of his stupid, pathetic voice.

"I's planninon marryin 'im, yaknow," he blubbered, taking a lazy swig from the near-empty bottle. "Yep! Jus' likeat. Gotta ring n'evrythin. Don't know where putit."

The fan creaked but otherwise gave no response to his incoherent mutterings.

"Not lika faggot like me coulda got married," he spat. "Nope! Not a ponce. Woulda gotten killed or summin likeat. Too bad, plenty o' people woulda liked to see that."

Anger roiled in his stomach, white heat spreading to his fingers. It wasn't fucking fair! All his friends – James and Lily, Alice and Frank – got to live their happily ever after. Got to have kids, get a house with a white picket fence with their fancy jobs and happy lives. They got everything he'd ever wanted, and what was Remus left with?

An empty flat, an empty bed, and a soon to be empty liquor cabinet. No friends, no lover, and probably no job. It'd be too much trouble to call his mother; all of her natterings would make his head pound. He'd ignored the letters for too long. Answering them all now would be an insult. Better to just stay inside, he thought. Better to just keep going; at that rate, he'd be dead by his birthday.

He smiled despite himself, entranced by the fan once again

•─────⋅ ⋅─────•

_February 1981, Manchester, England_

Remus' head pounded, agonizing tremors raking through his skull. He winced. The floor beneath him was cold and wet, a puddle of liquid ensnaring him, weighing down what little clothes he had on. Even with his eyes closed, the shimmer of light threatened his darkness. It burned, and it was all he could do not to scream bloody murder.

Remus went to take a deep breath of bathroom air when his nostrils flared wildly. A rancid, foul odor filled his lungs; he gagged. There was an unmistakable stench that reminded him too vividly of transformations. He didn't need to be fully sober to know that he'd lain in his urine. Its warmth seeped into the fabric of his pajamas; he'd soiled them now.

"Damn," he muttered, rubbing at the tight knot intricately placed at the crown of his head. Splitting pain dispersed across his skull, his eyes screwing shut as he cringed through the ache.

There was no use in trying to sit up; Remus knew he was still pissed as a newt, and his equilibrium, whatever was left of it anyway, had long since left him. It was a miracle he'd made it to the bathroom – not in time, of course. Instead, he chose to curl in on himself, pushing away the empty bottle of fire whiskey and ignoring the God-awful odor circulating in the bathroom.

He was pathetic - absolutely pathetic. The familiar sting of unshed tears forced themselves to the forefront, the accompanying lump in his throat swelling to unnerving sizes. It was difficult to swallow the foul air in the bathroom, to inhale and exhale on cue. If he blinked fast enough, then he'd be able to hold back the dramatics for a moment longer. But what if he didn't want to?

Fuck, he missed him. Not a moment went by. He didn't think of him in some way. He wanted to see his face, touch his hands, feel his lips against his. Remus' thoughts betrayed him every waking moment – flashing memories he'd once taken for granted, waking up beside him, watching him laugh, hearing him sing and play that fucking guitar he'd bought at that yard sale years ago, holding him as they danced, and more. It taunted him, and he wasn't sure how much more of it he could take.

He cried out, a choking sob echoing throughout the flat with no one to answer. Everyone was gone, and it was all his fault. Remus had let everyone down and pushed anyone else away. Nobody deserved what he'd dished out to him. The anger and hatred, the spite and resentment – he couldn't help it. Look what he'd fucking done! Lost everyone to his bitterness.

His throat throbbed as he forced out emotions – emotions that he felt needed to release. All the crying he'd done over the past four months, all the screaming and shouting at no one in particular, had done its damage, but he didn't give a jot. He wailed, face turning an unnatural shade of red, and felt his lungs wither in his chest.

"Sirius," he cried, voice trembling. "Come back."

Yet, Remus knew that it would never be. Sirius had left him – no. Remus had left Sirius, and he'd never get him back.

•─────⋅ ⋅─────•  
 _March 1981, Manchester, England_  
Remus glared at his reflection. God, he hated looking at himself. Even through the fractured mirror in the bathroom, there was enough left to make out sullen expression. Dark rings of bruised skin hung around his eyes, the aftershock of last night's full moon still wearing off. Blood soaked strands of his hair, their jagged ends pasted to his pallor skin. Remus didn't dare let his eyes stray to the abrasions covering his body – the wolf's futile attempt to end all of this suffering.

They'd both had enough of this – enough of all the skulking and crying, the pain and misery. Remus was left to wallow in his self-pity and sorrow, and the wolf busied itself with nothing but fractured pieces of its host to amuse itself once a month. The cycle of despair and anger had worn down on his soul, and Remus was unsure of how much more of this anguish he could take.

How long would this last? This irreparable, incessant hurt that resided everywhere no matter what he did. Drinking, crying, screaming, transforming, sleeping – nothing fucking helped anymore! Remus was at the edge of a cliff in his mind, battling the urge just to throw himself into the deep end. Give him enough time, he assured himself, and he'd lose the last marble and finally get the guts just to do it.

It couldn't have been so bad, could it? A single blow and all of this – all of this discomfort and agony and loneliness – would be solved. Sirius would never know, and surely James and Lily would move on, too concerned with Harry to fret over Remus' fate.

He nodded at himself, ignoring the trickle of blood into the sink. A gash on his chest, nasty and sore, throbbed beneath his skin. It was bearable, he told himself. Externals would always heal, yet what he was feeling on the inside felt boundless. There was little hope inside him that he'd be able to mend what had shattered at his hand; his mother told him hearts are fragile. All the damage it had received over the years had finally caught up, and Remus found that he just couldn't fix it.

Externals would heal. This pain – this grieving process that just didn't seem to move forward – was killing him.

He exhaled, nerves on fire, and breath wavering. He couldn't bring himself to look up – to face the man he'd become. This monster – this pitiful coward was taking over his life. It was time he took control again. The only way to end all of this suffering was to end the reign of solitude and desolation. Without Sirius and Lily, James and Harry, life was fucking pointless. Remus didn't want to live at all without them.

Go to them, a part of him pleaded. They'll take him back, won't they? They'd forgive him, wouldn't they? Aren't friends supposed to do that? Nevertheless, he was reminded of the way he'd treated all of them, how he'd abandoned all of them time and time again.

Remus decided then he didn't deserve their forgiveness or company.

It was best for all involved just to disappear, fade into the background, and dissolve. No one would miss him, not even his family. Remus was nothing but a secondary character, and that was no one's fault but his own. Still, it was better to end it here, where he still had some semblance of sanity, than to drag everyone else down.

His wand, untouched for weeks, sat idle on the sink. The weight in his hand felt foreign and wrong in all sorts of ways as if he were touching something that did not belong to him. It was oddly heavy and warm, the magic buzzing within the cracks of aged cypress. Was it itching to be used yet again? Would it allow him to relieve himself of this pain?

Remus lifted the tip of his wand to his temple, tremors racing through his body. The point wavered against his skin, a redness covering the site. Remus needed this, desperately. This was the only way to put an end to all of this pity. In only a few moments, he'd be a new man yet again, unshed and unbothered. The memories of Sirius would be wiped, and the nightmares would cease. Remus would yet again live a normal life with semblances of sanity. He would make new friends and meet a lovely woman whom he'd marry.

Life would be normal. Did he want normal?

All Remus knew was that he wanted this vicious cycle to end, and that this was the only way to do it.

Remus watched his splintered reflection, tears staining his dirtied cheeks. His nostrils flared wildly as he tried his hardest to breathe deep, fulfilling breaths. He needed to do this. It was necessary for survival.

The tip of his wand dug into his skin, and he winced.

"Do it," he muttered, screwing his eyes shut. "Just fucking do it!"

He was scared. So scared. He didn't want to forget Sirius – shit. He wanted to forget he was gone! He wanted to wrap up all of this heartache and stuff it in a box forever. Yet, the only way to do that was to grow a pair and be a man.

Remus opened his eyes, steadying his hand and swallowing his inhibitions.

"Obliviate."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hello everyone!_
> 
> _I wanted to say a few things. First and foremost, two days ago Mischief Managed turned one year old!_
> 
> _One year ago, on my birthday, I fucked around on my computer and managed to create something so important to me. I had absolutely no idea that it would gain as much traction and receive such unwavering support. Every day, I am reminded of where I started - at my kitchen island with this itty bitty seed of an idea that has sprouted into one of my greatest accomplishments, my literal favorite past time, and my dream come true. Your comments, your likes, and your saves have kept me going when I considered giving up. I cannot begin to express my gratitude toward each and every single one of you. You are just as important to this writing process as I am, and I want you all to know that I acknowledge the credit you deserve. As I turn 19, I'm looking back on where I was a year ago — as a young woman, a writer, a student, and whatnot — and it's crazy to me how I couldn't even fathom where I'd be by next year. I still can't grapple this completely. I love each and every single one of you to the bottom of my heart. I wouldn't be here, writing such a message, without you._
> 
> _Secondly, I am so sorry for the lack of updates. While Mischief Managed turned one, I also turned 19! And this past week has been very difficult for me. Not only am I swamped with work, there are things going on at home that require my attention. However, I'm back on my game (I think). I won't promise consistent updates because life happens, but I want to assure all of you I'm not abandoning this project in the slightest. Obliviate and MM are my children and I'm not sure what I'd do without them._
> 
> _I hope all of you are well, and I love reading your comments. Don't be scared to send some more, because they make my day!_
> 
> _Much love to each and every single one of you. Stay safe, stay clean, and stay classy._
> 
> _Until the very end,_
> 
> Nic.


	14. ☆The End?☆

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"What if – and this was the question I couldn't bear – the rest of my life was just this:_
> 
> _The process of surviving?_
> 
> _When, in fact, I had not survived."_
> 
> _-via_ Meghan O'Rourke, from **"A Note on Process,"** _Sun in Days_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TRIGGER WARNING. TRIGGER WARNING. TRIGGER WARNING.**
> 
> **SELF-HARM, BLOOD, GORE, DEPRESSION.**
> 
> **If you are sensitive to subjects such as self-harm, suicide, and anything of the sort, I ask that you skip over this chapter**
> 
> **I want to put this at the beginning; I do not care if this is a spoiler. If ANY OF YOU are struggling with mental health, suicidal thoughts or actions, or anything of the sort – I implore you to seek help. Emotions are so challenging to manage alone; I know how difficult it is to survive some days. As someone who has made several attempts on my life, I know that READING about things associated with suicide can trigger me if I am not in the right headspace. If you do not think you can handle it, please please PLEASE do not force yourself to read this.**
> 
> **If you are struggling right now, know that you are enough. You are loved. You are wanted. You are extraordinary. You are beyond all words that I can write. I want you safe and alive, and I want to know you are thriving. I care. So, so much. Please know that there is always someone out there who will listen to you. My private messages are always open; I offer a safe space for everyone. If you think you need more than that, please use the hotlines listed below:**
> 
> **US National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255**
> 
> **Hotline: +44 (0) 8457 90 90 90 (UK - local rate)**
> 
> **Hotline: +44 (0) 8457 90 91 92 (UK minicom)**
> 
> **Hotline: 1850 60 90 90 (ROI - local rate)**
> 
> **Hotline: 1850 60 90 91 (ROI minicom)**
> 
> **Australian Lifeline Crisis Hotline: 13 11 14**
> 
> **If your country is not listed above (those listed are high on my readers' demographics), please go to and follow the prompts on the right-hand side for hotline numbers both in the US and outside.**
> 
> **Stay safe. Spread love.**
> 
> **I love you.**

_April 1981, Manchester, England_

"You're selfish," Sirius sneered, sprawled elegantly across the sofa.

Remus felt his eyes scan over his lover, lingering in the places that looked unfamiliar and, almost, unreal.

This figure resembled the man Remus had forgotten years ago – fierce and flawless. Sirius' hair flowed over his shoulders like midnight's shadows, dipping into the curves of his collar bones and chest. Those eyes – the fucking eyes – were dazzling in the muted light of morning, milky and shameless. His skin was unmaimed by time and trauma, creamy and soft to the touch. Remus could almost feel it against his fingertips – warm and tantalizing.

"I know," he mumbled. "You don't have to remind me so often."

"Well, clearly, you're not doing anything about it," Lily said.

"We just graduated, Lily, what do you expect me to do?"

"I don't know! Get up and do something with yourself," she shouted. "Look at James and me. We've already applied to work at the Ministry."

Remus glanced sideways at her.

She was small, not nearly as strong as he thought she'd been. Lily looked, almost, delicate through the sheen of light dimmed by the curtains, skin translucent, and fresh. There were no heavy bags beneath her dewy eyes, and her shoulders no longer carried the burden of, perhaps, a war? A war they'd no part in?

"Not today, Lil," Remus groaned, turning over in his nest with a grimace.

"She's got a point," Julienne said with a light shrug of her shoulder, curls trailing over her forehead. Her accent was thick, coated with her mother tongue's lilt. "The sooner you get it over with, the sooner you'll get rid of…"

Remus' frown deepened, "Get rid of what?"

He could feel their eyes boring into his brittle body, disappointed and disgusted with this pitiful excuse of a monster. Their constant chatter had gone on for weeks; they watched his every move. Day in and day out, they taunted him. Snide remarks on his abrasions and filth, crude jokes about his miserable routine, and jabbing offenses to add insult to injury were all toppling over on him – he couldn't bear it any longer.

"Us," James deadpanned, the thick, circular lenses reflecting a revolting image to Remus.

Remus didn't want to lose them, though. While their omnipresence made his tortured skin crawl, he needed them. Even if they were memories stored away in the darkest parts of his heart, and even if they only told him what he wanted to hear, Remus needed every one of them to hold onto whatever remained of his sanity – the little shard digging into his brain.

When they left, Remus had nothing but his tired thoughts, memories he couldn't quite remember. Mornings seeped into afternoons, which eventually bled into the night. There was no use in trying to keep up with the days in his mind. What was there even to do? The Potter's wouldn't allow him to busy himself at their manor till he found a job, and his position with the Order was irrevocably compromised before it had even started. Not to mention that his self-isolation had utterly destroyed each of his interpersonal relationships.

He smirked; these first eighteen years had gone by swimmingly.

At least these constant reminders of his loneliness filled up the blank space in the flat. Space that had once been occupied by his lover – his best friend. They spoke and teased, walked and rested, argued and joked as if they were truly there. Sirius sang those bloody tunes from the radio nonstop, and sometimes it brought a wry smile to Remus' face. If he could go just a moment longer pretending Sirius was still there, lounging and reading, perhaps painting a canvas, then his life could go on.

When they left, Remus would have nothing and no one.

There was nothing to live for, nothing to die for, and nothing to save.

What was the point of living a life like that?

"No," was all he said, burying his face in the blankets yet again.

"Stop being such a child," Sirius hissed. Remus could hear his footsteps traveling the confines of the bedroom. "You said it yourself. This life isn't worth living. So, just get it over with."

Remus ignored him. If he tried hard enough, long enough, time would prove to be such an effective way of dealing with this tsunami he'd no control over. His heart would harden, and his tears would stop; if life were generous, it would allow him to go through the motions of life the way he had before.

"Sirius would do it for you," Julienne reasoned. "He wouldn't hesitate."

Remus glared, "Well, I'm not Sirius."

James snickered, "Clearly not. One of you managed to do something with themselves while the other is wasting away in an old flat – a flat, for the record, that you don't even recognize."

The world around him felt familiar; his body responded to the furniture and corridors naturally. It felt well-known and welcoming – like he'd lived there for years. Somehow, he knew where things were, and when the train would always pass. There were clothes of his scattered around; a pair of his reading glasses were rested on the coffee table downstairs.

"That isn't the point," Remus said.

"No, the point is that you're sitting here rotting when you've got the tools necessary," Lily stated. "All you need to do is gather that Gryffindor courage."

"I've got none of that," he mumbled.

Sirius scoffed, "Oh, we know."

"Stop confusing him," Lily said. "You could always use the ceiling fan."

James shook his head, "No, no, Lily, that's not the way to go."

"Why don't you throw yourself off the –" Julienne began, but Sirius beat her to the punch.

"And break every bone in your body before you drown," he said. "No."

Deep down, Remus knew they were right. He wasn't getting any better, and the days passing by were growing more and more desolate. The helplessness and hopeless pining for a better life seemed to be in vain. Remus couldn't find it in himself to cry any longer, dry heaving instead as he forced the emotions out of his chest.

"The answer's in the bathroom," Sirius muttered. "But you've got to be strong."

This wasn't any way to live. His escape perched itself in the bathroom cabinet, cold and sharp. The thought of slicing his skin open – prying open tissue at his free will – was terrifying. Would it be painful? How long would he last? How much blood would he spill?

"Is it painful," Remus whispered.

"Only for a moment," Julienne said.

"It's like falling asleep," Lily explained. "It's… peaceful, almost."

Remus' hands shook, a clammy sweat breaking over his skin.

"Don't be scared," Sirius whispered, lips close to his ear. Though, his breath did not roll over his skin. He wasn't real. "I'll be right there with you."

Remus felt the sting of sadness in his eyes, his throat closing, "Until it's over?"

James circled the bed softly, the veiled shimmer of morning breaking through his jaded figure, "Until the very end."

Remus looked over at the photograph on the nightstand, an old memory he didn't remember. A Christmas party; they all looked older; the war had settled on their shoulders with more force. Their smiles were weaker, eyes more tired, but they smiled, nonetheless. Remus' arm draped over Sirius' shoulder lazily as the other grasped his waist. Remus couldn't recall the night, much less the emotions swelling in their photograph. He couldn't remember much of anything anymore.

Perhaps, that's what made the motions so much easier. Walking to the bathroom felt like wading through swamp water; his feet dragged across the floor. Remus could hardly raise his shoulders – straighten his posture – for his home stretch. The will and motivation he needed to do this with honor had crawled out of him months ago, and it was a chore to make it to the bathroom barely. Still, his mind was in another place entirely, and his focus wasn't on dying.

Soon, this agony would be over. The sleepless, nightmare haunted nights, the painfully dreary days – all of it would be done within a matter of minutes. The fear hadn't left Remus; it still resided in the pit of his stomach, roiling and bold, but the release of death was in his reach. So long as he reminded himself that they were here, holding his hand along the way, it would all go by much more swimmingly until the very end.

The bathroom hadn't been cleaned in months; a stale smell of piss and unwashed clothing coated every inch of the room, and, to the average person, the scent was practically sickening. Remus, however, couldn't seem to care about his stench, let alone one of the bathrooms. He muddled through rotten clothes and trash, kicking aside empty bottles and cans of beer on his way. It was a shame he'd ruined this flat; it must have been excellent at one point.

But he ruined it like he ruined everything else.

"It's going to be better for all of us," Julienne assured him, her frame small in comparison to his. "I promise."

He opened the cabinet, pushing back all of the reservations pooling in his mind; it was best to ignore them. They'd only get in the way of what he needed to do. The razor was sitting proud and brash amid the cologne and facial washes. It was pristine and sleek, the dim light of the bathroom reflecting into Remus' eyes.

Something so small instilled tremendous fear in Remus; this thing – this minuscule object – was going to end him today. It was difficult to believe that it could. He'd spent years being ripped apart by an internal force, targeted by the most powerful wizard of humanity, and survived all of these trials. Now, a single razor blade no longer than the length of his index finger was going to put an end to Remus.

Shivers ran down his spine, the hairs on his arms standing on end.

"Do you need me to help," Sirius offered, coming up behind him with ease.

"It's better to do it vertically," Lily said. "You're more likely to sever a—"

Remus fumbled blindly with the razor, "I know Lily."

"Just trying to help," she mumbled, sulking to the corner of the bathroom with the rest of his friends.

Remus blanched, eyes flitting across the damaged skin of his arms. The scars – scars from the wolf – were faded and bruised, obviously older and healed. He'd never taken the time to notice them anymore; they'd become a part of him, not insecurity. Now that he looked down, they stood out like stars in the night – no – like thistles in a rose bed. They were ugly and prominent, harsh on the eyes, and they were scattered all over his skin.

"Don't go," Remus pleaded, too afraid to die alone.

Sirius smiled warmly, "I'm here."

Remus took a deep breath and reminded himself that they would stay with him.

Until the very end.

•─────⋅ ⋅─────•

Something wasn't sitting right in James. The world felt off – out of tune. He just couldn't fall asleep and had spent most of his night tossing and turning wildly. Lily was sleeping next to him; her arm draped around their infant son, a ward to protect him from all harm. Harry was soundlessly resting, his antics from earlier wearing him out. Finally. The family cat crouched on the chest of drawers, tail swishing aimlessly as she observed. His world was turning seamlessly, but something felt wrong.

No matter how hard he tried to rationalize this anxiety in the pit of his stomach, he sounded barking mad. There was no rhyme or reason as to why he'd been so worried about nothing in particular. Lily would tell him it was stress or grief; Dumbledore had been too busy worrying about the Order to pay much attention to James' trepidations. James was left with only himself to manage the inhibitions swelling in his mind. They were growing out of control.

The house was silent; the ticking of the clock sounded in his ears, obnoxious and constant. Traffic had slowed beyond their walls. The midnight silence left only the occasional blare from a train in the distance or a late-night conversation between the neighbors on their balconies. Lily and Harry were fast asleep beside him without a care in the world. Everything was, seemingly, in order.

Carefully, James slipped out from under the covers. Lily remained undisturbed, her nose wrinkling from the cold air replacing James' body. Harry, on the other hand, sniffled loudly, green eyes peering up at his father. His face, so young and chubby, screwed with childish curiosity and, if only a little, fear.

"Daddy will be back," James whispered, rubbing the smoothness of Harry's forehead. "Keep mummy safe."

Harry, who'd been a rather passive child, watched inertly as his father dressed himself. The boy chewed on his pacifier with little interest, soon drifting back to sleep under the weight of his mother's arm. James tried his hardest not to wake his wife; her worries for James were growing by the day. There was no way in hell she'd allow him to go out at – he checked the clock – three in the morning. Not that he blamed her very much; with the Order at an all-time low, they were vulnerable in almost every way. The Potter's had red targets painted on their forehead; their safety was compromised.

Nevertheless, James couldn't sleep, and wrestling under the covers for another four hours wouldn't do him any good. He slipped on an old pair of trainers and left, leaving Lily a short note.

_I've gone for a run. I couldn't sleep. Wards have been put up. Stay safe. Love you._

_-J_

Manchester was warm and humid, the rains of April spilling onto the city. A haze lifted from the streets, obstructing his vision. This time last year, he'd been interviewed by some bloke named Varga, pushed for answers he didn't have. It'd been the last time he'd seen Peter, the last time he'd see Remus with his mind intact, and one of the last times he'd see his brother. How different things would be a year later. James couldn't comprehend the turn his life had taken in recent months.

He trekked through the city streets, going nowhere in particular. There were thoughts of guilt and rage that ravaged his mind in moments like these; when there was nothing to distract him from the chaos. Lily tried to get him involved with other things to take away from the madness – Quidditch, Harry, reading, painting. Everything reminded him of who he used to be – the James he'd once thought he'd always be. James could barely make a cup of coffee and not be reminded of the days he'd spend with Lily and Sirius, chatting over nothing.

He missed them desperately. Time and time again, he wrote to Peter. His letters were always returned, his owl unable to locate his friend. With Sirius' sentencing, he wasn't allowed visitors in Azkaban, nor was his family able to send him gifts or letters. The point of life in prison – a prison such as Azkaban – was to ensure complete and utter loneliness and to instill a sense of helplessness in its convicts. They'd succeeded. His relationship with Remus was distant.

His friend had been absent from his life since Harry's birth. The grieving process was taking a toll on him, according to Lily. For practically a year, Remus had holed himself up in Sirius' flat with not a single person prohibited inside. James couldn't understand why his friend would want to waste away alone. They cared for him, wanted the best for him. Wasn't that enough? Maybe if he went and talked to him. James had only tried twice to visit. After his parents died, he'd entered a dark place.

However, he was better now. Perhaps he could help Remus get better, too.

James all but jogged to the flat, not encountering a soul on the way. The darkness of night shrouded his vision, and the presence of Muggles was too probably to cast Lumos. He dealt with the struggle and pushed onward.

Sirius' flat remained dark and desolate in the complex. A single light had been left on – the bedroom. Remus must've been awake, which was terrific for James. He skipped steps on his way to the door, brainstorming all the ideas to greet an old friend. How would James approach him? What could he say? How could he introduce himself to a man who'd become a stranger over the past year?

James was nervous, and rightfully so. Remus had changed, according to Lily. He was angry and spiteful, and all the generosity that had once been in his heart had drained. James didn't want to ruin this chance to rekindle the only friend he'd left. The last Marauder.

James neared the doorway, expecting the push of wards to slow his pace. There were none. The typical resistance that resided around the flat had gone quiet, the humming of magic mute. Remus removed the protection charms? James was confused–baffled. Had Remus encountered a change of heart? The hope that, maybe, his friend was ready for recovery blossomed in James' heart, and the anticipation swelled.

He knocked, "Remus." Silence. "Moony, it's James."

His call went unanswered, and James assumed his friend hadn't heard him from the bedroom. Once again, he knocked.

"I know things have been odd lately, Moony," he said. "I… I miss you, Moony. We miss you." Silence. "Could I just come in and talk?"

There'd been a clatter from the upstairs, muffled by the doorways between them, but otherwise nothing. James frowned. It wasn't strange for Remus to ignore his visitors lately, but that anxiety in James' stomach roiled. This didn't sit right within him. It was rude to barge in, but drastic times call for drastic measures; Remus would learn to forgive him.

He turned the knob, expecting the bolt to prevent him from entering. Instead, it creaked open, a resounding thud echoing as it hit the wall beside him. The odor—God the odor—was overwhelmingly stale and rancid; James' eyes watered, tears running down his cheeks. Bile rose in the back of his throat, and the contents of his stomach churned. Lily had told him that the state of the apartment was sick, but this? This was uninhabitable.

He trudged through the clutter and garbage, feet coming across bottles upon bottles of empty fire whiskey. How long had Remus been living like this? The scent of rotting food emanated from the kitchen, gnats and fruit flies buzzing over leftovers spilled across the dining table. Whatever had been left in the fridge was beyond consumption; James didn't have to investigate to figure that out.

The light from the bedroom spilled down the stairway, dull and low.

"Remus," James called, hoping to hear an answer.

Panic overtook James; had something happened? He flew up the stairs, taking them three at a time. The odor worsened the closer he got to the bedroom, but it didn't matter. The cleanliness of the apartment didn't fucking matter. Remus mattered, and James needed to know that his friend was okay. That roiling in his stomach, the one that had kept him from sleep earlier that night, was screaming that he wasn't. James wouldn't rest till he knew.

"Remus," he said as he entered the bedroom.

It was chaos. Clothes were scattered everywhere, soiled sheets spread across the bed. The windows were bolted shut, but the curtains were open to allow moonlight in. James didn't spend too much time admiring the view, eyes scanning his surroundings for signs of life. There were none. He searched beneath the mountains of clothes, under the bed, and between the sheets for Remus, he came up empty-handed.

His heart raced within his chest, his anxiety skyrocketing as time went on without any sign of Remus.

James burst into the bathroom and blanched.

"No," he cried. "No, no, no, no!"

He scooped Remus into his arms, hands clasped over the gashes on his arms. Blood spilled into his palms, wetting his clothes and skin. His friend, pale and weak, stared at the ceiling dumbly, mouth ajar. James couldn't calm his hands to feel for a pulse; he crying masked the control he'd lost.

"Moony," he whimpered, holding his friend. "Why! Why would you do this?"

James felt for his wand, fingers frantically searching through pockets and seams. His blood covered hands grasped at the wood, the wand slipping from his grasp. He swore beneath his breath, vision blurred by tears. His glasses fogged with emotion, and as he went to wipe away the tears, redness clouded his sight.

"I can't lose you, too," he said, steadying his wand. He pressed it against the slashes. "I _won't_ lose you, too."


	15. Out of Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"In all the wild world, there is no more desperate creature than a human being on the verge of losing love."_
> 
> _-via_ Atticus

_St. Mungo's, April 1981_

Remus blinked away the sleep, crusts of dried tears spilling into his eyes. He couldn't be bothered to reach up and rub it, get rid of the discomfort. Instead, he lay awake for yet another night—locked inside a room in the hospital with four white walls, no windows, and a single door—to mull in the misery. It never went away. Morning, noon, and night, despite all of their efforts, Remus was taunted by his failed attempts.

Attempts at everything; living a healthy life, loving Sirius, being a good friend, and a better son, ending it all. Remus Lupin was a failure even when he tried his damn best to put an end to it all. Was he cursed to live a life of constant falls, knocking every branch on his way to the ground?

It hurt to think. Everything hurt. Remus' eyes, his wrists, his head, his stomach—it was never supposed to end like this. No, it was supposed to end. It was never supposed to continue. This wasn't part of the plan. Remus didn't expect the aftermath to weigh so heavily on him.

It hurt. The agony of continuing to live pained him so much that soundless tears trailed down his pale skin.

Crying hurt, but he couldn't bring his wounded wrists to wipe away the tears.

•─────⋅ ⋅─────•

_St. Mungo's, May 1981_

Remus watched the wall. His Healer spoke to him about his discharge; about all the ins and outs of the healing process. There was a lot to upkeep gashes in one's wrists: cleaning, bandaging, ointments of all sorts, keeping the wounds dry, changing the dressings. It was all a bit much, and Remus was thankful the Healer provided a written copy of all his ramblings to take home.

He knew it was vital to listen, to heed his warnings, and take all the advice given. However, Hope was sitting there, prim and proper in the corner. Her head wobbled as she nodded at all the right times, her eyes strained as she forced her composure to hold its course. At least she had been listening; in fact, Remus wondered if she'd pulled a muscle with that focused frown on her face. The expression looked almost painful.

"I'd also like to take a moment and recommend a mind Healer for you, Mr. Lupin," the Healer said, eyes empathetic.

Remus blinked, pulling himself into the present. All eyes were on him, expectant and apprehensive. He swallowed thickly. What could one say to that? Yes sir! I'll be off to see the shrink, yet another flaw to add to the ever-growing list.

"I'm fine," he grumbled, tying his shoes.

The Healer sighed, "Depression is a long battle, Mr. Lupin, and we can't always fight it alone. I believe a mind Healer could give you the tools necessary to—"

Remus stiffened, "I said I'm fine!"

The room fell silent, the hum of hospital life filling the gaps. He stared at the floor; Remus was unable to bring himself to look at the gloomy expression of his mother. The Healer nodded, eyes sad, and signed the release papers.

"I wish you good luck, Mr. Lupin," he said, "and hope that you and I meet on more fortunate circumstances."

•─────⋅ ⋅─────•

_Lupin Cottage, September 1981_

Remus wrinkled his nose, the horrid stench of his mother's breakfast rousing him from his sleep. The sun beat into his room and threatened the light, trepid sleep that finally overtook his nerves only hours ago. He could feel the trickle of sweat running over his skin, dipping between the curves of his aching bones, and grimaced. It was much better than drowning in pools of tears and piss, and the smell was vastly better than that in Manchester, yet still, he frowned.

It was the same thing—over and over again—waking up to the aroma of eggs and bacon, burnt toast, and too-tart orange juice only to slump in the living room in front of the television. For hours, his eyes would burn, itching to close and rest, and his spine would beg for just a moment of reprieve in his bedroom. His ears were bleeding from hearing the same script, the same laugh tracks, the same music, and the same infomercials on repeat day in and day out. Life had become a constant loop—an infinite cycle doomed to repeat itself for eternity.

But James said that this atrocious way of living, the monotonous, flat lull of marginal normality, was better than being dead. Remus found that very difficult to believe, as life had become even more unbearable in the months at Lupin Cottage with only his mother for company, and there were evenings when he'd much preferred the misery back in Manchester.

A soft knock resounded, his mother's breath sharp in his ear even from afar.

"Darling," she murmured. "Are you awake?"

"I am now," he grumbled, burying his face in the pillows. It'd been so long since he hadn't wallowed in his filth, the familiar scent of lavender and baby powder had been, if only a little, jarring. "Couldn't I just spend the day in bed?"

Hope clicked her teeth, striding across the room and opening the curtains to reveal a bright spring morning. For a moment, Remus considered himself a vampire and only just refrained from hissing. His mother was most definitely an early riser, preferring to finish the day early and enjoy the quiet time of night with her son in the living room. He, on the other hand, could, and would if she allowed it, spend almost the entire day in bed with only himself for company. Nevertheless, she wouldn't allow it, and he was foolish for hoping.

"We've got lots to do today," she said, pulling the covers off of Remus.

He shivered, embarrassed at his revealed skin, and curled away from her. After spending so long with the woman, Remus had hoped he'd gotten used to her prying and insensitive way of life. Privacy was an enigma to his mother those days; he assumed she was partially entitled to it given the fiasco in April. There wasn't a doubt in his mind she was worried about him. It showed in her hovering, the micromanaging, and the mollycoddling. Even then, he couldn't help but internally groan as she began picking up his soiled clothes – as any mother would do.

"You mean, you've got things to do," he corrected.

"Nope," she chirped, tossing his laundry in the hamper with a bright, albeit forced, smile. "You know the drill."

Remus glared, "Mother, I'm not a child. I can stay home alone—"

"Oh, yes, because that went quite well before, didn't it," she snapped, composure slipping for a fraction of a second.

Remus recoiled. He squirmed beneath his mother's stare, uncomfortable as her eyes trailed up and down each of his forearms. Even with the older, faded scars littering his skin, those from April stood out bold and bright on his pallor skin. They were puffy and bruised, the silver from the razor leaving permanent nuisance, and each was sensitive to the touch. He'd thought he could effortlessly hide them under jumpers and button-ups, but the healing process was proving somewhat challenging. They were easily irritated, and a burning sensation always found a way to creep up the length of his arm as a reminder.

A reminder of his worst mistake. Not just to him, but to everyone else. They all looked at him with edgy, apprehensive grimaces. It was so easy to notice the flicker of their stare, the curious yet horrified expression as they saw the tip of a scar poking out from the cuff of his sleeve. It was even easier to hear the pity in their voice as they asked him how he'd been doing—if he'd been handling things better, and it made him want to gag.

Remus reviled the disappointment in their voices, the coddling edge to every question. They were entitled to their anxieties; he understood that. That comprehension didn't soothe the burn to his ego with every doubt they handed him.

Hope averted her eyes, upper lip stiff, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"No," Remus rose, striding to the bathroom with a stiffness creeping up his spine. "No, you shouldn't have."

She left without another word, not another passing glance, and Remus showered to rid himself of the sticky, sweat riddled skin from last night's uneasy sleep.

Life at Lupin Cottage had become a stagnant, almost systematic, form of life. Every move he made had to be calculated and timed; the threat of overthrowing the semblance of balance he and his mother had created was overwhelmingly near. The movements were the same—bland and dull; lifeless and mute—the images, the sounds, the smells were all the same. Remus imagined the sensation of being trapped at home as reading the same paragraph in a book; his eyes looping around the same words and phrases time and time again. He couldn't muster the energy, let alone the courage necessary, to break free of the cycle.

It was much easier to seep in this impression of normalcy, and it was better for everyone involved. Better for his mother, better for James and Lily, better for Harry—whom he'd yet to visit—but most of all, it was better for Remus. With this routine, he could pretend things were the same as they'd been before—before magic, Hogwarts, the Marauders, and him. He could convince himself that his life resembled what it was before everything had all gone to shit.

It was better not to dwell, however. Dwelling only brought back memories Remus had long since forgotten, or so he thought. Spending all of his time sprawled in bed or huddled on the couch, doing nothing but stare at the blank spaces around him, allowed him to put a wall around the painful moments. The moments that barged in on his solace—the moments of seldom calm—and threatened his resolve.

Remus dressed accordingly. Jumper over an old shirt of his father's, trousers, and the nearest pair of shoes he could scrounge. It might have been the middle of summer, and the heat was nearly unbearable, but the curious stares and indiscreet murmurs of strangers were much more challenging to stifle than any summer day. Remus would put up with the weight of his sweat-soaked jumper if it meant he could blend. For once, he just wished he could blend.

Radio tunes dulled the car ride. John Lennon distracted Remus from the hideous guilt rising in the back of his throat. He knew he'd done nothing wrong that morning, simply requested that for one day he be able to have a moment of privacy, but the sensations prickling in his brain were convincing him otherwise. Still, even with rationale on his side, Remus felt the sting of remorse jabbing into his side—painful and harsh.

"Mum," he murmured, eyes focused on the trees lining the road, "I'm sorry."

Remus hadn't the courage to tell her the depths his apology had been pulled from, the memories haunting him on its way up to his throat. It was beyond painful to recall, let alone mention.

He felt a small hand reach across the miles between them, stroking the hair he had left away from his scarred face. Her fingers massaged his scalp; she rubbed soothing circles into the crown of his head. It was soothing; his mother had always been a gentle soul, and it had been ages since Remus had danced with gentility. The feeling greeted his conscience with hesitation, yet rancid yearning.

His mother reached over instinctually, her hand cupping only a fraction of his flushed face. He shivered at the coolness of her ring. Remus curled his fingers, untrimmed nails digging into the softness of his palms. The warmth of her skin against his made tension race through his blood; being touched was an anomaly. It made him recoil from her, the hardness of the car door digging into his side.

"I know," she said. "I know."

She gripped his shoulder, saying something he didn't precisely here. It was something endearing and heartfelt, of course, and if he'd been listening, it might've lifted his dwindling spirit—spirit he'd not had in months. His mind traveled to different realms—places he dared not tread alone. Those places were haunted by images of times he'd never get back. Then again, there is magic in misery.

•─────⋅ ⋅─────•

_Lupin Cottage, December 1981_

Remus watched, smirk hidden behind the sleeve of his jumper, as his mother flitted across their living room with decorations draped on her small frame. Her movements, oddly animated and bold, caught his eye as she fiddled with more lights than necessary. Ornaments of all shapes and sizes hung from an old jumper, clinking together with every jerk and wave. Remus was reminded oddly of an old cartoon he'd seen quite some time ago. The images were jaded and distant yet present all the same.

"Dad's going to have a cow over the light bill," he commented off-handedly.

Hope shrugged him off, waving a dismissive hand, "He'll live to see another day, Rem."

"You sure about that," he scoffed. "Remember the year he nearly pulled a hernia after we ran up the water bill?"

"Well, someone had to pressure wash the driveway," she cried. "It looked grimy!"

Remus merely chuckled, letting his head rest on his fist. His mother busied herself with decorating once again; she hummed along with the radio, and he watched in an idle state. Life at home was practically perfect in every way, and Remus knew he'd been taking it for granted. The vacant stares, hollow responses, and knee-jerk reactions were part of an intricate dance to avoid moving on. It was cruel, in a way, to convince his mother that he was gaining traction yet again—fooling her into thinking that he just might be getting better. If Remus got better, he'd have to move on from Sirius, and that wouldn't ever happen.

Perhaps he'd be stuck like this—empty and miserable. He preferred it to the way things were. It was better stringing himself and everyone else along with hopes of recovery than to meet your maker.

Right?

"Remus, you've got to put on the angel," Hope's voice pulled him from his murky state.

He blinked at her.

"The angel! Remus you've got to put the angel on the top," she repeated, pulling her son to his feet with much anticipation.

"You only want me to put it on because I can reach," he said, nudging her side. She scowled.

"No," she said. "You used to do it as a kid. Your dad would put you on his shoulders, and you'd stretch as far as you could and just barely…" Her voice trailed off into dark, dangerous territory, a glimmer of regret in her sunken eyes. Remus wasn't the only one who'd been haunted.

"Aren't you supposed to put the angel on at the end," he jested.

Hope smiled wryly, redness brimming her pupils, "I think it's a nice start. Something pretty to look at, you know?"

Wanting nothing more than to see her smile, even a fickle half-hearted grin mustered only for his sake, Remus dug the old angel from a bin. It'd been covered in dust and dirt; the attic was no place for such a sacred piece. The sensation of youth spread across his palms, warm and familiar yet too far from his reach. Its fabric was scratchy and worn, and still, he felt something blossom inside of him.

He snuffed it quickly before the embers burned too bright.

It'd been years since his father had lifted him, and Remus had grown quite tall. There was no need for stretching; topping the tree was an easy feat. For the first time, it sat up straight and tall, the glimmer of lights spreading through its synthetic wings. They stared, mute. The silence was comfortable—necessary—in the moment. With the bustle of his mind, the beats between each thought were much appreciated.

Remus flinched at the sound of knocking. Lupin Cottage very rarely had visitors even in his youth. His family had remained at arm's length, and the children in the neighborhood had all grown up and moved out of such a stuffy place. Remus was left alone with silhouettes taunting him at every corner. Those who'd once been part of Remus' life away from home were either dead or resentful, if not both. He didn't blame the slowing letters or the lack of attention. It was what he asked for.

"Are you expecting someone," Remus asked, glowering if only a little as Hope glided to the door.

The look in her eye told him she was up to no good; mischief was in the air. Leave it up to the Marauders and their mothers to take matters into their own hands. Leave it up to Hope to play the mediator and leave it up to her son to pray to God to swallow him up in a sinkhole.

Hope opened the door, "Happy Christmas!"

Remus internally groaned, not in the mood to entertain guests. It was probably his aunt and uncle from London—the ones who didn't seem keen on visiting much anymore to Remus' pleasure. Why they'd switched up the routine now was beyond him, and he was tempted to scurry to his room to avoid contact. Hope knew how he'd loathed guests in recent months. It was bad enough he'd been plagued with odd stares from the townsfolk on every grocery trip. To be ogled in his own home was insulting.

"Thank you for having us, Mrs. Lupin," said a familiar, low voice.

Remus' skin prickled; a sickening wave of familiarity washed over his sensitive nerves. The pulse beating within his neck felt fatally strong. He knew that voice. He could point it out from a mile away. It reminded him of so many things–rainy nights hidden in hallways, the heart of forests in the fall. His mind begged him to regain composure and coolness, to maintain a sense of propriety and dignity after what had happened. Yet his heart soared fiercely—each beat resounded in his chest.

Life forced itself into his bones, a sense of urgency taking over.

He all but ran to the door, nearly knocking over his mother as he came to a screeching halt.

"James!" He breathed.

He embraced his old friend, clinging to his blazer for dear life. That disgusting cologne he loved attacked his nostrils, and he'd nearly swallowed a mouth full of curls, but it was all worth the comfort of James' arms. They were part of an old life—the life that Remus had been holding onto all those months—and he cherished the moment. Remus had made the mistake of taking those pockets in time for granted; he wouldn't make it again.

"Hey, Moony," James muttered, pulling Remus tighter. "I'm here."

Remus found his eyes watering, not used to the pull of such…happiness. Relief? Could he consider this relief? Was he happy to see James after all those months, after all that had happened?

All of these feelings, the sensations wrapping around his lifeless body, confused him; they left his train of thought derailed in the deserted confines of whatever limbo he'd sat in. It was odd, to say the least, when each heartbeat held meaning, however little meaning it had been. For the first time in months, Remus felt elated—joyful! His spirits, the ones he'd considered dead and gone for good, raised from the grave, carrying him on their wings toward the light.

"Save some love for us," Lily snickered, hidden behind James' tall figure.

"Lily," Remus gasped.

James made way for his wife, ducking through the doorway with a familiar smirk. Remus' eyes flitted over Lily, taking in the sight of her. As it always had been, Lily looked stunning. Motherhood had been kind to her, and the flush to her cheeks glowed bright and loud.

Yet, Remus could only focus on the mother for a moment, as the child curled close in her arms.

Harry.

A pint-sized James, he had been. Thick, dark wisps of hair curled over his forehead, nearly covering his eyes. Remus saw his reflection, tinted green and a little fishy, in Harry's. They watched him with clueless curiosity, marveling at the sheer height of this gremlin. To his surprise, Harry seemed more intrigued than frightened, not so much as flinching as Remus reached forward to stroke his cheek.

"He's amazing," he murmured, his index finger rubbing small circles into Harry's cheek.

It was soft to the touch; his mother had said all babies are soft to the touch, but Harry was different. He was born different—better than anyone else. Remus had never seen the boy, never once spoken to him or visited. He didn't deserve to feel bonded with his Godson; his absence proved his lack of responsibility and care.

Even so, Remus couldn't help but beam as Harry's toothless grin spread across his chubby face. An invisible chord, secure and steadfast, tied them together in that moment, and Remus knew he'd never leave again.

"He's so small," he said.

"Don't be fooled," James said. "He eats like Pet—"

"James," Lily murmured, interrupting her husband with a swift smile. "Let's sit so you can hold him."

Remus refused to let the comment seep beneath his skin, the excitement of seeing his Godson too wild to worry. They shuffled into the living room, edging around scattered decorations and boxes. It was a mess, but neither of the Potter's seemed to mind. With ease, Lily found herself comfortable on the couch next to Remus, bundled in her jacket and scarf.

"Here," she groaned, lifting Harry out of her arms. "Don't worry. He isn't fussy till he's hungry."

Suddenly, Remus became antsy. It was awkward grabbing the boy as Remus was terrified of dropping him. James would slaughter him! Remus didn't know how to hold a baby; he'd never been in proximity to one in his life. His mind raced with all sorts of possibilities on how the night could end in ruin, all beginnings circling his carelessness with Harry.

"Just let him sit in your lap," James laughed.

Lily scowled, "Don't act like an expert. You were just as stroppy when you first held him."

Remus' world seemed to filter out the unnecessary jabbering of the Potter's. Harry seemed unaware of everything except the cartoons running on the television, but Remus didn't mind. It was surreal. The planning, preparations, and bedlam leading up the birth of this child had manifested in his lap. All of their suffering and tragedy, the pain that seemed so unbearable, had ended, and Harry was the reward. In a world full of war and drama, it was alleviating to have a break.

Harry looked up at his Godfather, green eyes glassy and full.

"Hullo," Remus whispered, smiling. "I'm Moomy. Can you say that?"

It was silly to assume a baby, not even a year old, could form coherent words, but it was worth a shot. Remus didn't even know if the child understood yes and no yet. It was a shot in the dark, yes, and the outcome still bittersweet.

Harry chewed on his pudgy fingers, drool spilling down his chin as he chanted, "Moo! Moo! Moo! Moooooo!"

Remus laughed with his chest for the first time in nearly a year, a genuine smile stretching across his sunken face. The pain of yesterday was slowly erased as Harry chanted words he did not understand. Remus almost convinced himself that Sirius would walk through the door at any moment—fashionably late, of course. Nonetheless, those thoughts were futile.

"It's a start," Remus said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI HI HI HI!
> 
> So much has happened since our last talk. I know that the world is a dark, scary, and dangerous place in these times. I hope that this chapter lifted your spirits, however bittersweet it might have been. I won't harp too long, but I do apologize for the wait.
> 
> These past few weeks have been hard for me emotionally and mentally. As a black woman, I have felt deeply troubled by the media and images and videos forced onto my social media. It feels like every day, my community is faced with more hate and violence, and it just got to me. I've been signing petitions and donating as much as I can, but I can't help but feel as though it doesn't matter some days. This time has definitely affected my ability to write. When you see nothing but videos of police brutality and anarchy, it definitely effects the psyche.
> 
> I hope all is well with you guys, and please don't hesitate to message me if you ever need to talk.
> 
> Much love,
> 
> Nic.


	16. Not an update, still important

Hello, everyone. This is, sadly, not an update. I come to you with very sad news.

As many of you know, I’ve been writing Remus’ journey for over a year now, and I would’ve never anticipated the traction and support it has gained since then. 

However, the world is a dark place currently. Everywhere I turn, there’s violence, hatred, tragedy, and loss. It’s really taken a toll on me mentally, and I’ve also run into some domestic problems. I will be moving out—on my own—very soon. I’m having to add on work hours to afford my first few months of rent comfortably. With that being said, I believe our story must be put on hold for a short while. I am emotionally, mentally, and physically worn out. I would rather take a short hiatus and gather myself before producing work that I’m not proud of. I can swear to you that this isn’t the end, and I will be coming back. There’s no doubt in my mind about that. Nonetheless, my brain and my heart desperately need a break. 

Please stay safe, stay healthy, and spread awareness about the horrible things happening globally at this time. I won’t be gone long.

Pinky promise.

Until the very end (which will not be any time soon),

Nic.


	17. Components

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“It will always matter what you think,  
>  even if you leave.”_
> 
> _-via_ Parth, “Always.”

_Potter's Residence, March 1982_

Remus' anxious eyes followed Harry's crawling figure across the living room floor, chubby fingers and toes moving spare toys and ribbon. The other adults didn't take much notice to the toddler as he babbled and scuttled. Lily was far too absorbed in her conversation with the other mothers to pay attention to her son's mischief. Remus remained silent in the corner, gingerly sipping his apple juice in hopes this moment of unusual bliss would remain undisturbed.

Babies were funny little things; that was a notion he'd deduced after watching one too many playdates between Neville and Harry. Hardly ever did they know what the hell was going on outside of their theatrics. Remus wondered if life existed beyond their own eyes. Harry mostly busied himself with toys, his mind wandering more often than not, while Neville babbled on and on about God knew what. Every now and then, their parents would engage in playful roughhousing or games of a sort, but, indeed, the boys preferred to stick to their impish, juvenile mischief—mischief they created in their tiny little brains.

Speaking of mischief, the pair seemed to be conspiring against James, as Remus thought. Harry acted as a young lion cub, prowling the carpet amid trousers and shoes—hidden from plain sight. Well, they did not see Remus as he kept his gaze firmly plastered onto Harry. That didn't mean he had to ruin the fun. He leaned against the wall, waiting for the anarchy to ensue—anything to liven up this excuse of a birthday party.

Not a thing stood in Harry's way! Not even James' fat leg. James had been blocking the television—the most crucial episode of Blue Peter airing in the boy's lifetime—and Harry would have none of the anarchy ensuing any longer. Remus snickered into his cup. It was a breath of fresh air seeing Harry again in his natural habitat—unforgiving and all too playful for many of their liking. Remus didn't mind, however, and neither did James, who'd covertly spotted his son in his attempt of an attack. The baby raised his fist proudly, mouth wailing an unmistakable battle cry, and brought it down against his father's calf.

Remus bit his cheek, denying himself the pleasure of a smile, as James toppled over theatrically. A few bodies made way for him as he crashed against the ground at painstakingly unhurried speed. He flailed wildly, crying out in a mockery of pain. Wild, black curls fell into his face, his glasses askew and fogged. Harry opened his mouth, balancing on the thin line of amusement and surprise. Lily's eyes flitted over the scene, her motherly instincts brushed lightly over her features, but ultimately deemed the situation under control. She and Alice fell back into easy conversation, leaving James vulnerable to Harry's blow.

"Uh oh," Harry squeaked, pushing himself up to waddle over to his father. "Down!"

"Roger that, mate," James winced, grabbing his leg where Harry had hit him. Remus doubted, in that man's colorful Quidditch career, that a child as small as Harry could ever cause any actual damage. Still, it was quite amusing watching such a show. "I'm down. I need back up."

"No," Harry giggled, marching over to his father and crawling onto his chest. "Nev!"

Neville, who'd been successful in hiding within the dress skirts and trousers thus far, leaped into view, his bright, blue eyes proud and full of confidence. The boy, who'd been marginally larger than Harry, towered over James' wincing face. Remus tried his hardest to figure out what they'd been playing—it hadn't been Cowboys and Indians, or Newts Nefarious Schemes—and settled into the background as he did best those days. Whatever they'd been up to, it filled the room with joyful delight and laughter.

Remus found solace in those moments squished between the recurring moments. Things had been better—much better—than before. One could assume they were nearly back to normal; if their group could ever be considered so. The threat of Voldemort had lessened exponentially in the months following Peter's disappearance. Without the duties of the Order pressing so firmly on their shoulders, they could finally begin their new lives; the remainder of its members were starting to level out.

James and Lily were in the process of finding their forever home, finally healing from the loss of Euphemia and Fleamont, while Frank and Alice were just settling in. Dorcas had managed to land herself a job in the Ministry—somewhere in the Witch Watcher's department. Kingsley Shackle-Bolt, one of their finest, had also become an Auror. Why might you ask? Remus had no fucking clue. Being an Auror was the last thing he'd ever want to do in his lifetime; the Order had served him enough needless grief for one lifetime. Mad-Eye Moody had been shipped back to the Auror's office to deal with other things—things deemed more urgent by the Ministry, and his presence in their lives had been plucked thin, to Remus' relief.

There was a significant component missing, however, and it was a punch to the face every morning Remus roused from his fitful sleep. Someone was absent from this mosaic—someone rather crucial in the grand scheme of things. And no matter how much he'd drank to drown out the humming reminders, or how often he removed himself from today's reality, Remus was always reminded that Sirius was gone—gone forever. There should've been another person lying on the ground with James, hair sprawled out beneath him as his string-bean arms fought off attacks from Harry and Neville, or perhaps he would've chased his tails for the shits and giggles of his Godson.

There were a million scenarios Remus had walked through in the year since he'd lost Sirius. Dreams, nightmares, little mirages dancing in the distance of Walter's Ash—his lover haunted him at every turn. There was no escape from the loss of Sirius Black, and Remus woke up day after day with that agonizing reminder heavy on his chest. Harry would grow up only hearing stories of his crazy uncle Dadfoot, watching his faded figure laugh in photographs. He'd never hear his laughter or corny jokes, never feel the warmth of his bear hugs.

It had only been two years, and Remus was already beginning to forget what they felt like. Two years. One starts to forget the things they should remember, and you can't stop remembering the things you'd rather forget. Remus was no exception to life's cruelty. More often than not, he wound up cradling his weeping body into the early morning, his brain shouting all the nasty things they'd once told each other.

To think we once loved each other.

Well, weren't you ready with your face down your arse up to go behind my damn back!

I don't think that's a phenomenon to you, though.

Monsters… I said that you knew all about them.

Shut up, Lupin.

I'm surprised. It usually doesn't take much to impress you these days.

Perhaps Peter had been right; maybe Sirius was a horrible human being with no regard for others. If Remus could spend two years, crying himself to sleep almost every night, as he recalled the monstrous conversations between him and Sirius, then maybe it was a good thing it had been over. If Remus could relive every harsh obscenity, they threw at one another, whether in the heat of the moment or after due time, this must've been God at work?

Yet, it was during the day when little things reminded him of their love. Songs, movies, different smells as they went through the city, a pair of trousers in the magazine. It was easy for his vulnerability to grow at night, his doubts and anxieties multiplying. That's what darkness and grief did—they preyed on you at your weakest.

Remus knew Sirius was a good man, even if he had his moments. If his brain didn't want to register that, so be it. Even so, his heart rang loud and true. It reminded him with every fractured beat that Remus loved a good person. He would always love that person. Despite the many miles between them, the ever-lengthening barriers standing in their way, Remus vowed only ever to love Sirius.

It was the least he could do after everything they'd done. Something told him that the sentiment would be returned.

•─────⋅ ⋅─────•

_Godric's Hollow, May 1982_

"Be careful with that, James," Lily howled, marching over to her husband as he fumbled with an unmarked box.

The spring air was thick with moisture that afternoon, and no amount of antiperspirant could withhold Remus' pit-stains. It was utterly disgusting; he and James were both piles of sweating, blubbering messes by the evening, and no matter how often they dabbed their foreheads, a sheen of perspiration always managed to find its way back. The back of his shirt was incredibly damp, much to his disdain, and even his shorts did little to allow his skin to breathe. James was no better, resorting to removing jacket in hopes he'd cool down. They gave up eventually and worked through the humidity as best they could.

"I'm going to die," Remus cried, leaning over. Beads of sweat dripped onto the hardwood floors, splattering wildly at his feet. "Don't you two have an A/C unit?"

James' brows furrowed, his nose scrunched up. Lily answered primly, "It should be turned on by the end of the week."

"The end of the week!" James exclaimed, fumbling to the floor with a thud. His legs flailed out beneath him, and his arms stretched to their lengths as he begged for the rare breeze to blow through.

Lily didn't seem to be so uncomfortable in her overalls. Soft resentment apparent in his glare, Remus had yet to see her break so much as a glisten. It was as though she hadn't been helping when she could, but someone had to manage Harry. After all, he was merely a year and a half old and could hardly manage alone. Even so, her soft curls remained bouncy and full, free from sweat and humidity. Remus could growl, dripping with moisture on every inch of his body.

"Why don't we take a break," James suggested, huffing his pink-tinged cheeks.

Remus merely nodded, settling down on the floor. He took the quiet moment to admire their new home. It was spacious—much roomier than any home he'd ever been in. Windows lined every wall on both floors, natural light pouring in graciously. Remus had no doubt Lily's curtains, however marvelous they were, would be pulled open at almost all times. With the sun's glow, the downstairs felt welcoming and open. There were no pictures or decorations, no indication that it had belonged to the Potter's just yet. Still, even with the few belongings they'd unpacked, Remus felt safe and, nearly, comforted by this new place.

The rest of the house was just as quaint and lovely as he'd expected. He'd explored earlier as the trucks arrived with their furniture, not missing the bright yellow paint in Harry's bedroom. Remus gave it a month before James began plastering Quidditch propaganda all over the walls. It was a miracle Harry's first word hadn't been snitch; that was if Lily didn't get to decorating first.

This was their fresh start. The horrors of the massacre were to be left behind, never brought up again. This was the Potter's chance at a new, better life—life outside of war and tragedy. Godric's Hollow was a milestone. In the years of violence and grief they'd experienced, it had been the Potter's who deserved their peace. In Remus' opinion, they'd served their time, and then some. It was finally time for them to put the Order and the war behind them.

For Harry.

Remus didn't have to ask to know that their decision to begin anew was mainly for their son. Any decent parent would want their child brought up with love, family connection, and kindness, not the burden of training and politics. The Order of the Phoenix had been an essential part of their adulthood; it had molded them into who they were now—broken, anxious, marred individuals with a sense of unease and distrust. No one wanted that for neither Harry nor Neville.

Remus wouldn't question their decision, and he chose to back them up however he could. There was no discussion about their choice to move from Manchester. It was a matter of fact—an inevitable turn of events that no one could stop. There was, of course, push back from Dumbledore, but Lily stood firm. Harry was now her priority, and Remus was inclined to agree. In a matter of weeks, the Potter's had gathered their belongings and hauled ass to Godric's Hollow without a glance behind them.

Remus was happy for them.

Momentarily, he felt abandoned. James and Lily were all he had left aside from his mother. After the unofficial dissolving of the Order, people went on about their lives. No one kept in contact anymore; there was no need to be around one another always. No daily check-ins or patrols. No exchange of information. Life had proceeded to grow extraordinarily dull without the old spin of war.

However, he knew they were only a call away, and someone had to babysit Harry while the parents were away.

Speaking of Harry, he gnawed viciously on his rattle.

"I think he's hungry," Remus pointed out breathlessly, reaching inside Lily's bag for his snack pouch.

"Moomy," Harry called, reaching over for his Godfather.

Remus couldn't fight the persistent grin on his face as he scooped Harry into his hairy arms. They'd grown so close in the last year in ways Remus couldn't have imagined. Parenthood frightened him beyond belief, but Harry was manageable.

Sirius would've loved him.

"Rem," Lily coughed. "James and I—"

"We've got something serious to ask of you," James interrupted, noting the obvious concern in his wife's tone.

Remus, busy with feeding Harry, nodded absently. The toddler shoved his fingers in the plastic baggy, dribble soaking the graham crackers inside. At one point, Remus had been revolted by such acts. Spit, poop, and pee were all consistent components in Harry's character. Nevertheless, he'd grown accustomed to the little rat's hygiene. He gingerly wiped his chin with a napkin, hoping that it'd stay dry for a fraction of a minute.

"Remus," Lily said, this time more sternly.

Remus frowned, "I'm listening."

He'd hoped that his voice convinced them of such because on an honest note, he was trying his best to drown them out. Now and then, the Potter's would approach him with propositions. Nine times out of then, they were bargains to get him into therapy or some sort of grief group. It wasn't that Remus assumed he knew better than them; at times, his grieving process lagged. Most of the time, he found himself drifting back into the stage of depression or anger, sometimes denial. He tried to assure them that this was natural, but it had been two years. How long would it take for acceptance to grasp him?

Nonetheless, that didn't seem to be troubling his friends that day. The look they exchanged, however brief, was startling. Remus hadn't seen that glance since their days in the Order, and he felt his skin prickle.

"Dumbledore visited us the other night," Lily began. "You know, the usual ramblings about one thing or another. There wasn't much that grabbed our attention."

James sighed, "There's been activity amongst Death Eaters, Moony, and—"

"No." Remus focused his attention back on Harry, stroking his hair gently out of his face as he chewed. The finality in his voice roused something inside of him, an ember he'd thought long gone, but otherwise startled him. He hadn't used that voice in ages.

"We're not asking you to be a part of the Order again, Moony," James continued, his hazel eyes pleading silently. "But, we need your help."

Remus refused to look up at them, refused to acknowledge this back-handed request. No matter his decision, however selfish or selfless it had been, there would be a cost. Deep down, he knew that he'd do anything for them, regardless of the consequences. It was one of his many vices and virtues. Still, it didn't hurt to weigh them out. Whatever help they needed, Remus was sure it had only been Dumbledore to convince them of such urgency. Nothing could be so dire in those days; activity had been low on the radar—low enough for him to slip out of that cursed group's ranks.

"How," he mumbled, unsure he wanted to continue the conversation.

"I know this is a lot to ask of you," James said, "and we wouldn't ask you if we didn't completely trust you. We'd like you to be the Secret Keeper of Godric's Hollow."

Remus sputtered, his amber eyes wide and frantic. James and Lily wanted him to undergo the Fidelius Charm? Secret Keeping was severe fucking business. It wasn't something you decided over a cup of tea and biscuits. Remus had only ever heard of one secret keeper before, and that was in a history book. There was no doubt in his mind that such vows were standard in their practice; the reassurance of safety was a top priority and remaining under the noses of the enemy was vital.

But Remus? Why him? Surely there was someone else—someone much more trustworthy they could turn to? What about Dumbledore? Sure, the bloke was a total pain in the arse and slimy as grease, but there wasn't anything he wouldn't do to win the war. McGonagall, perhaps? Frank? Alice? Fuck, anyone but him. Remus didn't doubt his loyalty to James and Lily, merely doubted his capability. The capability of what, keeping their secret?

"Why me," he asked, unable to fight his curiosity. "I feel like I'm least suited for the role."

Lily smiled wryly, a tinge of red in the whites of her eyes, "Truthfully, it was between you and Sirius."

"You're our family," James said, clapping his calloused hand onto Remus' back. "I trust you with my life, mate."

"I would fucking hope so considering what we're about to do," Remus scoffed, unable to wrap his puny mind around the idea.

Lily scowled, "Language."

Remus shot an apologetic glance her way, knowing that Harry was far too absorbed in counting the number of grapes left in the bag to be worried about his swearing.

No matter where they went, it seemed that the consequences of war would follow them until the end. But if Remus could lessen their strain, ease their worries even a bit, he would take the chance. If this charm meant that Harry would be raised in relative peace, Remus knew that it was worth it. The boy deserved a childhood and nothing less.

It didn't take long for Remus to make up his mind, and he couldn't help but feel a pang of pride in his chest. He knew, somewhere, that Sirius would be proud of his bravery, proud of his sacrifice for their family. A dry smile came across his face, and he pondered just what Sirius would think of him now as they scuttled throughout the day. In his heart, he hoped there would be nothing but grace for him.

Yet, the Wolf reminded him such things were not granted to cowards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, well, well. Would you look at what the cat dragged in. After a month of no updates, I decided to pull myself out of my stupor and get back into the swing of things. I needed that break, honestly. I've been so overwhelmed emotionally and mentally; everything was taking a toll on me. Literally, everything just sucked out my energy dude. I thought I would never get back to normal. Yet, here I am. I look pretty good for a dead bitch (haha, I live on Tik Tok).
> 
> Anyway, I wanted to take a moment and address something. You all have been nothing but understanding and supportive of every decision I make. Words cannot describe how heartwarming it was to read your comments and reviews, wishing me well as I just took a moment to breathe. I don't deserve you guys. I truly don't. I wish that I responded to each and every one of you, but to be completely honest I've tried to spend as much time away from my phone as possible. Please know that I do read them and I notice all of you. Your love and support, your goofy comments, do not go unnoticed by me.
> 
> Hopefully, a string of updates will follow this one. Much love to all of you.
> 
> Until the very end,
> 
> Nic.


	18. On the Fence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Oh, how many times we tried to erase our traces…_
> 
> _and failed every single time."_
> 
> _-via_ Healer Poetry

_Location Undisclosed, May 1982_

James sighed, running a ring clad finger through his wind-tossed hair, and forced a friendly smile. It stuck up now more than it had upon their entry to Head Quarters, and under any other circumstances, Remus might have teased him. Judging by the rather fierce look on Moody's face and the stressful frown on Dumbledore, he decided against it.

"How lovely to see you again, Mr. Lupin," Dumbledore beamed. Even through his half-moon spectacles, Remus could note the exhaustion brimming the pools of azure that sparkled beneath the lamplight. His previous Headmaster had never been one to exude the nature of the failure. Nevertheless, Remus couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt as Dumbledore stroked his aching forehead.

"You as well, Professor," he mumbled, eyes averted from the table.

It was pitiful. The only members who'd bothered to return were those obligated to the cause: Moody, McGonagall, and Dumbledore. Dorcas had long since abandoned hope, opting to work from the inside out rather than stick her neck out blindly for the Order, not that Remus blamed her. The rest were either dead or in Azkaban. Remus frowned. Noticing Dumbledore, fading with age and exhausted, flicking at pages and pages of notes and documents, struck a chord within Remus.

Would things have been different had he revealed Peter's true allegiance sooner? Something cynically, perhaps the tired Wolf, told him, yes, yet there was no use in crying over spilled milk.

Moody took a long swig of whiskey, smacking his lips as he said, "So, I take it you've found your secret keeper?"

Lily gently rocked Harry in her arms as he slept, careful to adjust his head. "Yes."

Remus bristled under Moody's scrutinizing, one-eyed stare. The glass orb in its socket rolled freely, glistening and squeaking. Rumor had it that the prosthetic was a lie-detector—Moody would be able to catch a bluff in seconds. Though, if that were the case, Peter would've been caught red-handed ages ago, and none of them would be in the rubble of his anarchy. Still, Remus couldn't help but squirm underneath his gaze; Moody hadn't changed a bit. Was that good or bad?

"You sure," Moody barked, kicking his leg up on a stool. "There isn't any going back on this. Once it's done, it's—"

James interrupted him, nerves frayed, "We're sure, Alastor."

Remus felt like an outsider peering in through a window. His absence wasn't left unnoticed nor forgotten. Things had happened in his time away—some good and some bad—that much was apparent. They tiptoed around topics, classified information, in a way they hadn't before. Eggshells were scattered when Remus approached, and each member was particularly careful not to break too many.

Of course, these things were precautionary. After the betrayal of Peter, no one could be too sure. It didn't help the sting every time Moody glanced sideways at him; a growl perked on his scarred lips. Remus reminded himself it wasn't personal.

At least not entirely.

James swiveled on his heel and smiled at Remus, who replied with a wry one of his own; the familiar burn of feeling like an intruder scorched his lungs, Remus becoming painfully aware of the shared sentiment.

"The Potter's know what is best for them, Alastor," Dumbledore supplied, never meeting Remus' stare. "Leave them be."

Alastor grumbled his protests, excusing himself from the room. Remus watched as his burly figured slunk into the shadows; he never did like Moody and was glad of his departure. James frowned, and the deep creases in his forehead made him look exceptionally older—wiser. Things had most certainly changed; they had changed. Remus could only hope that things would go up from here. Ensuring the safety of his family was a step in the right direction.

"We'd like it done today, Albus," Lily urged, voice soft. "I know it's short notice, but James and I would feel much more comfortable if we could get things moving."

Dumbledore peered over at the couple, blue eyes lingering on their child before he said, "I can assure you, Mrs. Potter, Voldemort has been much more interested in the demise of the Ministry. The Prophecy's foretelling has passed, and—"

"Riddle is psychotic," James said. "I doubt he's going to give up without a proper fight. I won't allow us to be left defenseless!"

Remus was reminded of the prophecy.

Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives.

Those words haunted Remus, and he was sure the reaction was no better for Harry's parents. Constant vigilance would never be enough to soothe the anxieties felt by the Potter's—there was no need for rocket science to figure that one out.

"Besides," Lily said, "Trelawney never prophesized any dates. Voldemort could be planning something as we speak. He could attack right now, and we'd be unprepared."

Remus had never given much thought to that idea. Something inside him twisted—newfound apprehension. Would the Fidelius Charm be enough to protect the Potter's? With almost the entire Order gone, there was little they could do. Other people needed protection; the country needed them. Where was the Ministry when you needed it?

"Why hasn't Riddle attacked yet," Remus asked suddenly.

Lily, looking satisfied with the voiced concerns, glowered at Dumbledore. This matter had yet to be resolved. How long had it been going on? Was Lily just now getting her justice? Remus clasped his sweating palms in front of him in hopes the trembling would cease.

Dumbledore sighed, crossing his legs gingerly, "There are much bigger things Riddle is focusing on at the moment. I have my sources, Mr. Potter, and they tell me that your son is the least of his worries at the moment."

Remus scoffed, masking in the incredulous cough given by James, who said, "Is that supposed to make me feel better? What about when his focus does return? How will we know?"

"Because, Mr. Potter, I will tell you," Dumbledore was losing his patience. The pristine grin always perched on his aged face had thinned to a crisp line, the corners pulling downward the longer they doubted his resolve.

Yet, they were right in their doubts. How much of Dumbledore's word could they trust? Remus knew that his loyalty went about as far as you could throw his brother. Remus now understood their urgency and felt a slight hint of shame at his disregard the other afternoon. If he'd known how serious this all was—how near the threat was—he wouldn't have doubted them for a moment.

None of this meant, however, he would be rejoining the Order any time soon. For all intents and purposes, his attendance was only to secure the Fidelius Charm. His allegiance had broken years ago, and he refused to be roped back in with all of the violence and tragedy of war. Remus was unsure of how much more of this he could all take; if he were to lose the Potter's, he would have nothing. A part of him wanted to protest their involvement. Nonetheless, he knew that they were determined to stick with the cause.

No matter the danger.

"Let's just get started with the charm," he suggested, noting the rising tension, "and we'll move on from there."

The group seemed to agree on this and settled around the small table with scattered documents and quills. It reminded Remus of all those trips to enemy territory. Even though it was impossible, the stench of defecation and urine burned his lungs, a chill sweeping his skin. It had taken months to swallow the memories of those missions; they were rising to the surface yet again. Remus inhaled deeply, forcing the odor of baby powder and whiskey to encircle him.

Remain grounded, he told himself. It isn't real.

"What do we have to do," James muttered, his anxiety written plainly over his features. There seemed to be a permanent furrow to his brow, a frown pulling at the corners of his chapped lips. Remus could only hope that this charm would ease some of the tension on their shoulders.

"Mr. and Mrs. Potter, I will need you to envision the secret for me," Dumbledore said, voice gentle. "If it is a place, picture it in your mind. Every corner and edge, the way it smells when it rains. How many windows and doors are there? What color is the roof?"

Remus, feeling immensely awkward as both of the Potter's willed their eyes shut and thought of Godric's Hollow, felt his cheeks warm. No one seemed to pay him a bit of attention, however, and he was able to avert his eyes in peace. Dumbledore walked them through the process of creating their mental images to near perfection; if Remus spent a moment longer in that drawing-room, he'd be able to envision it perfectly for the next three years.

"Mr. Lupin, take their hands," Dumbledore instructed. The elder removed his wand from his robes, skeletal fingers perched gently against the wood. Remus did as told and clutched James and Lily's hands for dear life. Though he did not comment, there was no way to miss the tremors raking through Lily's fingertips. "Mr. and Mrs. Potter, I want you to describe to your Keeper what you see—what you smell, how it feels. Tell him everything until there is nothing left."

To be frank, it felt a little silly. Most protective magic went out with a great bang or a blinding light. Once, McGonagall was able to shield the order with a magnificent dome from an attack. This, on the other hand, felt tedious and a bit cheesy. Remus tried his hardest not to underestimate or disregard magic he didn't understand. If anything, this was for them, not him. Besides, Dumbledore was the greatest wizard of his age. Surely, he'd done this before?

Remus merely needed to have trust in the process. Trust in himself. Trust in Dumbledore.

He found that the latter would be the most challenging hurdle to jump.

•─────⋅ ⋅─────•

He didn't feel any different. After most incantations, the lingering magic always left an effect on its participants. Perhaps a tingle in the fingertips or bursts of energy, feeling lighter, or maybe a bit heavier. There was always a trace of magic left, yet Remus felt nothing. There was no vibrating or the subtle warmth of magic flowing through his veins. The way his thoughts screamed at him, how his heart protested every movement, hadn't been altered by the charm.

Dumbledore had been uttering the incantations for nearly an hour as James and Lily described Godric's Hollow. By the end of the ceremony, Remus could confidently walk the halls of the Potter's home with a blindfold on without bumping into a thing. He knew of the chipped paint on each wall; the scuff marks just past the threshold and the loose bolt on the sink in the kitchen. Their secret—their lives—were now safe with him.

Remus rubbed his palms against his jeans, hoping the moisture of sweat would go away.

"Now that the secret has been implanted, the only way for another person to learn of it would be to hear from Remus directly," Dumbledore explained. "You cannot be coerced into divulging it through means of magic nor force."

Lily's shoulders slumped in relief, and James smiled dryly. So, it was settled. The Potter's were one more step to safety. Remus trusted himself enough to keep the location of Godric's Hollow a secret. Who could he tell? There'd been only one person in the forefront of his conscience whom he'd ever consider telling, but he'd been locked up in a prison cell nearly a thousand miles away—too long gone to even hope of contacting.

"Mama," Harry whined, throwing his head back. His fat legs kicked beneath him, hair flopping hopelessly in his face. The resemblance between Harry and his father was frightening, even down to the parting of his hair. "Mama!"

"What, honey," she sighed. It had been a long day, no doubt, and dealing with a fussy Harry was on no one's to-do list. Harry motioned at his mouth as it hung open, drool spilling from the corners.

"I believe our chosen one is hungry," Dumbledore smiled, rising.

The mood, already stiff as it was, shifted, Lily's emerald eyes dark at the elder. Remus felt his muscles pull tightly together, and his stomach twisted itself into furious knots. Deep down, Remus knew that his Professor had chosen his words wisely; Dumbledore was no fool. Unlike so many senile men his age, the words that fell from Dumbledore's lips fell for a reason, and they always packed a punch.

_Chosen One._

If he'd been looking to incite a reaction from Lily, he'd been successful in doing so. Her face, contorted with unshed rage, grew an unnatural shade of red, her groomed brows knitting together. Remus had only seen her this angry once: in the Ministry just after the trial's recess. It might have been his mind playing tricks on him, but Remus could've sworn that the heat radiating from Lily was lethal.

"Remus," she snapped. "Take Harry out for some fresh air. Albus and I need to share a few words."

Remus didn't wait for a beat, scooping Harry away from Lily with ease, "Good idea."

Harry protested, reaching out for his mother's blouse, frantically, "Ma!"

James' eyes flitted over the scene, torn between soothing his son or backing up his wife. He rubbed his face, coming invasively close Lily as though to reveal a secret. He murmured in her ear, pleading for her nerves to settle, but his plight fell upon deaf ears. Remus knew that the argument unfolding would be a nasty one, and with a final apologetic look thrown James' way, he took to the entrance with Harry. Lily could handle herself. The question was, could Dumbledore handle her?

The heat had been relentless that spring. Humidity attacked the air, clinging to strands of his hair and the exposed skin of his palms. It had hardly been a minute on the porch of Headquarters, and Remus was building a sweat beneath his thin layer of clothes. Harry didn't seem to mind, however, and watched diligently for Lily's figure to approach the front door. His hunger seemed to have faded into the background.

"Come on, kiddo," Remus sighed, adjusting Harry on his knee. "She's just talking with Dumbles."

Harry's frown deepened, as did his sour mood. Remus tried engaging him with his juice box, apple slices, even a peanut butter sandwich. Nothing—not even a story—seemed to gather the child's attention long enough. After a moment or two, his eyes would linger on the doorway, his hand outstretched for Lily's.

"Ma," he cried, tears brimming his eyes.

Remus hated seeing Harry cry, though babies crying was no oddity. They peed and cried, pooped and cried, played and cried, ate and cried—a few artificial tears accompanied almost every action. On a typical day, nevertheless, Harry hardly ever threw a tantrum. He was indeed an oblivious little thing, always caught up with his toys or Blue Peter. That didn't mean the bugger didn't have his moments.

Like right then.

Having put up with Harry on only his good days, Remus was hesitant of how to handle this fiasco. Harry wouldn't eat, drink, or pay attention to a thing he said. Not even the stray kitty on the corner captured his attention for a second.

"Hazza," Remus pleaded. "Calm down."

But Harry cried out, louder this time, "Ma!"

Harry began squirming in an attempt to rescue his mother. Of course, Remus was far too strong and too old to outsmart, and every twist was countered with a turn. They struggled against each other for minutes at a time, Harry's face growing pink with irritation and exhaustion. Remus could only hope that Harry would tire himself out after too long and settle for napping instead. Something inside him, however, told him that would not be the case.

"Children," a voice purred. "A hassle, in my opinion. Especially this one."

Remus blood thinned, the feeling in his fingertips lost. The heat of spring died, replaced by a chilly gust; it blew his growing hair away from his marred face, revealing a look of utter mortification. Remus edged away from the hooded figure in front of him, not caring that Harry's lunch had fallen to the ground in the process.

Voldemort clicked his serrated tongue against the roof of his mouth, grinning madly, "What a waste, my dear boy! Now, what will young Harry eat?" Remus' mouth hung open, the words itching to drip from his lips now silent. There was no fathoming the situation in front of him—the fear coursing through his body. Revealing a chiseled, pallor hand, Voldemort snapped his long fingers. "Wormtail!"

Remus' eyes flitted toward a cowering figure hidden behind the plumes of robes wrapped around Voldemort's silhouette. A mop of greasy blonde hair and a pair of squinty blue eyes shuffled behind him, and Remus felt his heart plummet. It couldn't have been. He wouldn't dare. Not after all of the damage he'd caused.

In spite of the silent prayers thrown into heaven haphazardly, Peter Pettigrew, in anything but his glory, scuttled out from behind Voldemort, eyes downcast and mouth pulled into a shameful frown.

It took every ounce of restraint in Remus not to charge at the traitor, to strangle him before his very leader. How dare he show his face in front of Harry after what he did; he was lucky that Moody hadn't shown up. Lucky that no one had come to take Harry from him. Remus knew it was his personal duty to scalp Peter himself. It was his fault—all of this utter bullshit was because of him. Seeing him in the flesh, after it all had been said and done, only angered him more.

"You fucking coward," he hissed, moving away. Peter opened his mouth, eyes wide. "Don't say a word to us. Not a damn word, Peter."

"Moony," he began, but Remus was quick to beat him to the punch.

"Shut up," he screamed. "Shut the hell up!"

Harry, now frightened of this horrific scene in front of him, began wailing. His arms, weak and trembling, pushed against Remus' chest violently. Onlookers from across the street turned their heads to find the commotion, yet Remus didn't seem to mind. The buzzing in his ears, the vibrant hum in his chest, drowned out the gut-wrenching crying coming from Harry and Voldemort's polite chuckle.

"Remus, just listen to me," Peter shouted, stepping forward.

Remus wasted not a moment, drawing his wand and aiming directly at Peter's face. The urge to blow him to bits—to watch him scatter across the pavement—was almost too strong to resist. The only deterrent had been Harry; Remus would wait for James.

"You betrayed us," Remus yelled. "Your friends—we were practically family, you fucking coward."

Voldemort prowled the porch, pacing in front of it protectively. The pedestrians around them seemed to fade into nothing, leaving only a blank canvas with little noise.

"For there to be betrayal, there would have to have been trust first," he noted absently, red eyes switching between his minion and his enemy.

Remus steadied his arm, careful to conceal Harry from their eyes. His mind had shifted into overdrive, thoughts of escape and confrontation rampant in the forefront. There was no one to consult, not a single person to turn to. While it was merely Peter and another, the other had been one of the most powerful wizards of his lifetime. Remus had to protect Harry.

But Sirius…

He had to protect Sirius—avenge Sirius. He wanted to ask his friend: why? Why would you do such a thing to us? Do you know what sort of life you've condemned us to? Peter couldn't possibly comprehend the pain and suffering they'd endured in a simple span of two years—what about the rest?

"I trusted you," Remus spat. "I defended you at every turn. You were like my brother!"

To that, Peter fell silent, his pitiful figure turning away.

"Sirius was right about you," Remus continued. "You're nothing but a leeching rodent. We should have never befriended you."

"I kept your secret," Peter fired back. "For years, I didn't tell anyone about your…"

Remus' gaze darkened, "My what?"

An awful silence distanced them, neither wishing to tread on such ice. It didn't take long for Remus to figure out what exactly Peter meant, and he snarled. All of those memories—the laughter and joy, the trust and the bonds—had shriveled into nothing but treachery and disgust. Remus felt nothing but hatred for the vile man and hoped that he would get his chance to teach him a fucking lesson.

Voldemort decided to take the floor, gliding toward the porch with cat-like grace. His bare feet slapped against the ground, echoing in Remus' skull. Remus, now painfully aware of every vulnerability he presented, retraced his steps. His back hit the door with a thud, Harry nuzzling into the flap of his jacket for safety.

"Your condition, young Lupin," Voldemort supplied. "Once upon a time, I might have overlooked such an affliction." Remus' expression twisted equally with contempt and bemusement. "I offered my home to you—years ago—and you refused. I could have protected you from all of this. Wormtail, here, was smart enough to consider the benefits. You, on the other hand, are just another blubbering simpleton. Just as your father."

Remus bared his teeth, readying himself for a fight. He knew he would never win, and it wasn't only his life on the line, but he had to try.

"I'd rather die than join your cause," he declared.

A shiver ran down his spine as Voldemort grinned, his sharpened teeth poking into the skin of his pale lips. "You might get your wish, Werewolf. However, I wish not to spill young Harry's blood on this day."

Remus stare flickered to the child, his heart clenching as he took in the pile of snot and tears in his arms. Harry cried for his mother, his throat dry and tired. The poor boy's cheeks were red as cherries, and his nose was rubbed to hell. Remus would never hand him over. Never in a million years. Voldemort was stupid ever to assume he would.

"I don't believe you," Remus said. "Leave."

"Don't make him hurt you, Moony," Peter called, stepping forward with his wand. "Don't make me hurt you."

"You could get smattered across a freeway for all I fucking care, Peter," Remus snarled.

Voldemort, realizing his current position, lowered his gaze onto the child. His eyes, an odd shade of red with a mere slit of black, narrowed. Remus watched with caution; he was too afraid to run, too afraid to fight. Both might have ended with less than preferable outcomes. It was clear to him that Voldemort would not be leaving without Harry, even if that meant killing Remus in the process.

Voldemort's arm raised, revealing the ugly, black mark against the whiteness of his skin, his serpent-like voice shouting, _"Morsmordre!"_

Remus was quick to say, _"Ventus."_

A large gust of wind propelled from the tip of his wand, engulfing Peter and Voldemort in dirt and dust. The Dark Mark, at least the magic used to conjure it, had been thrown about in the whirlpool of air. Remus chose not to stay long enough to find out whether or not it made it into the sky, nor to see if either enemy survived the blast.

He hurried into the house, sure to lock and barricade the front door. With power such as Voldemort's, he knew it would do little to stop him. It ensured a moment longer for a plan.

"James," he shouted. "Lily! We have to go."

He searched the house madly, climbing the stairs and turning corners too sharp. Upon entering the kitchen, he found exactly who he'd been looking for. The color drained from his body straight out of his arse. Yes, there'd been James and Lily, sprawled across the floor at the feet of none other than Lucius Malfoy and another unknown figure.

"Ah," he said, wand at the ready, "just in time, Remus."

Remus had never been confident in his Apparition, nor did he fully trust himself enough to transport an adult, let alone a child. Still, sometimes we're forced to make decisions we don't necessarily want to make. He promised himself to come back—to rescue James and Lily—but he knew, had they been conscious, that Harry was the priority. It was always Harry.

Using their voices to guide him over the chaos around him, Remus took Harry away from Headquarters to the only safe place in England.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um… Hi.
> 
> I know that after that, I may not be the person you want to talk to. I know that we were just getting back on track—I know! But it must be done.
> 
> I want to say something really quick, though.
> 
> I know that its 1982 and the death of the Potter's was supposed to happen a year ago. I will only say this: it turned AU after Mischief Managed's ending. Things are no longer canon, and you're about to see how true that statement is in the rest of the book. You may or may not like that. well, i can guarantee you're gonna hate it at first. I hope all of you are well (you probably aren't after this, but don't worry. Remember HAPPY ENDING sort of…) and you should definitely watch Avatar: the Last Air Bender. It takes up a lot of my time. Anyways, I can't wait to read your comments. Have a good night.


	19. Psychosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"The void between us felt like an ocean; I didn't know how to cross."_
> 
> _-via_ Ben Maxfield

_Hogwarts, May 1982_

Remus ignored the odd stares from civilians as he marched through Hogsmeade, Harry in tow, in the rain. Hushed whispers engulfed his senses; their murmuring was less than discreet. He didn't blame them. Harry had taken to screaming at the top of his lungs, his face glowing bright red and cheeks stained with nearly an hour's worth of tears and May showers. The front of Remus' shirt had been soaked with sweat, rain, and tears, even a bit of snot, but he pushed onward despite the weight of his clothes.

"Be quiet, Harry," he barked.

Remus ignored the blistering pain in his shoulder, ignored the dribble of blood down his back, ignored the screaming child against his chest, ignored the worried chattering of people around him, ignored the clap of thunder above and around, ignored the downpour. His mind chanted—screamed—demands.

_Run. Run. Run. You know where to go. Beneath the Willow._

Remus' shoulder cried in objection, and he winced. Harry's pudgy little fist beating against his shoulder, his chest, his face was beginning to take a toll on his nerves, both physically and psychologically. Remus knew he should've been more attentive to the child. He knew how important it was that Harry return home safe, unscathed. Still, Remus could only muster enough energy to grit his teeth and trudge up to the castle. Worries for Harry would be dealt with later.

Hogwarts loomed over the pair, daunting and dark as usual, and Remus hardly found that relieving. Through the rainfall, silhouettes of students behind windowpanes clouded his vision. Classes were in session; Dumbledore was still at Headquarters, along with McGonagall. Who could he run to here? There'd been no plan—no mastermind behind his arrival. He thought of safety, and his heart took him to Hogwarts. There was no use in overthinking the logic; it was considered one of the safest places in England. Could he trust it?

Harry's wailing grew louder as they walked, his coughing and blubbering thinning Remus' already frayed nerves. His fists clenched at his sides, whatever was left of his nails digging into the wetness of his palm. No pain was incited as he broke skin; he only growled.

"Harry," he shouted, holding the child away from him. A dark expression overtook his features, and in that moment, he resembled his father. A few heads stopped to look at him from the viaduct courtyard, eager to see this strange man approaching. "You've got to be—"

"Remus!"

Peter's voice rang out over the rainfall, shadowed by the harsh strike of thunder. They'd followed him. With what little energy he had left—the bleeding in his shoulder oozed at rapid speeds—Remus carried himself up the stairs of the boathouse, cutting corners and tracking through fields. It was pure adrenalin serving him; the exhaustion was bound to kick in at any moment. The edges of his vision dimmed, obscured by his wet lashes and nausea.

"Young Lupin," Voldemort called, a shower of spells narrowly missing the back of Remus' head. "Stand aside, silly boy. Give me what is rightfully mine!"

A hex—perhaps a curse—blasted against the ground in front of Remus, causing him to stumble.

"Remus, stop running," Peter called, his panting louder than the patter of rain. "You can't win this!"

It wasn't about winning, Remus wanted to shout. The words refused to fall from the tip of his tongue, granting his aggressors only silence.

School children screamed in horror, retreating behind castle walls for safety. Voldemort's presence had been marked with magic in the sky, his curses rebounding from stone and dirt. But Remus never stopped running. His legs, jelly-like and fluid, carried him through the bridge. The pounding of footsteps behind him echoed in his ears, in sync with his pulse. They were close, he knew. Voldemort was close. Too much running, too much fighting. He was so tired. His lungs begged for a break; the coughing was becoming unbearable. The bleeding in his shoulder turned into pins and needles sensations, driving him mad.

Remus eventually stumbled into the clock tower courtyard, leaning against a pillar for support. A few stragglers—children no older than fifteen—watching, petrified of the figures behind him. He waved a lazy hand, motioning for them to keep going. I'll be fine, he wanted to say, but he could hardly promise himself Harry's security, let alone his own. Remus felt his knees buckling beneath him, his back sliding against the wall as his body lowered to the ground.

"Remus Lupin," Voldemort called, somewhere within the courtyard. "It is time."

Remus clenched his jaw, eyes screwed shut, "Fuck off." Fingers slick with rain and blood, he gripped his wand. It was a longshot; the probability of it working was slim to none. Under such circumstances, under such pressure, producing a Patronus was nearly impossible.

Remus forced himself to happier times, drowning out Voldemort's victory speech in hopes of bringing about the memories he needed. Like meeting Harry for the first time just months ago. The wedding. Sirius. Anything about Sirius. Christmas parties. New Year's.

He struggled for clear images, to feel the warmth of happiness. The chilly rain and Voldemort's incessant chattering proved a worthy distraction for his Patronus, and despite trying his hardest, Remus was only able to produce a small smattering of light from the tip of his wand. Pitiful, truly.

"No one is coming to save you, Lupin," Voldemort said, pacing the courtyard with his bare feet. "Give the child to me."

Peter, looking as helpless as one traitor could, ran his wet hands through his hair, "Remus, for the love of God, just do it! Give us Harry."

Remus tilted his head back, "Like I said, fuck off."

Remus, weak as he was, stood his ground. If it meant dying in the process, he would. He didn't have much to live for anyway. His heart told him that help would come eventually and that if he just held out a moment longer, this would all come to a miraculous end. The dramatics that Voldemort brought with him would soon cease, and life would return to its natural order.

It just had to.

Hours dragged on, or so his mind told him, of this battle. Blinding lights of red and green, battle cries of friends, and the burn of his shoulder clouded his consciousness. His body ached—screaming to give out—and he was tempted to take the offer. Remus willed himself to stay conscious through it all, grinning and bearing it as he blindly cast magic toward Voldemort. A simple prayer followed each spell in hopes it would stick. Deep down, he knew this was all in vain, and any attempt to thwart the darkest wizard in history would be snuffed in an instant. Nevertheless, he pressed onward.

Even as his vision blurred with bright lights and droplets of water, he pressed onward.

Even as the familiar voices of loved ones tempted his ears, he pressed onward.

Even as his body finally gave out from exhaustion, in his fickle mind, he pressed onward.

•─────⋅ ⋅─────•

Remus' jolted away and peeled his eyes open. It took a moment to grasp—for the reality to truly take hold—and he found himself blinking like an idiot. Shafts of morning light spilled into the room through the parted curtains, hitting the surfaces of the bedroom like prisms. The cream sheets twisted intricately between their legs, matting at the knees and leaving their bare feet open and exposed. Bemusement and shock coursing through his veins, Remus forced hushed ease over his soul.

It was just their apartment.

Remus felt a body shift against him, the warmth of mid-morning sun splayed against his back. He stretched his arms across them, sighing contentedly at the friction of familiarity and silky skin pressed to his chest. The soft breaths of air blowing against the sheets tickled the hairs on his arms; he grinned. Plumes of dark hair brushed against his nose, the scent of expensive shampoo riddling his senses. Sirius. Out of sheer habit, Remus let his lips, tender and wet, trace the curves of Sirius' spine, quick to note the goosebumps rising on his arms.

Remus knew Sirius was awake; the change in breathing, the sudden pull between their bodies, the breathless sighs that echoed in the forefront of his mind—they were all indicators that the sneaky little git was merely pretending to doze. Not that it particularly mattered, of course. Remus let his hands roam the dips of Sirius' body, nails tracing gentle patterns into glistening skin. It was all so recognizable; every mole and freckle served as an amicable reminder that this was Remus'. This brilliant, mesmerizing canvas of a human was his.

He brought his lips to Sirius' ear, pressing a gentle kiss behind the lobe.

"Good morning," Sirius sighed, craning his neck to get a good look at his lover.

Remus smiled; Sirius' eyes were crusty with sleep, barely open enough to get a thorough look, and his cheeks were tinted pink. Truthfully, he was such an ugly sleeper. His mouth hung open, there'd always been a pool of spit on his pillow, and he snored unbearably loud. Despite this, Remus couldn't help but feel like the luckiest man alive. Waking up to Sirius, and no one else was a gift. A gift he'd almost lost.

"Morning," he whispered, pecking Sirius' lips.

His hands, free to roam as they pleased, caressed the unmarred skin before him. They appreciated the smooth expanse of his back, the subtle, feminine dips in his hips, the curve of his shoulder blades that protruded as he watched. Remus found himself running over the same areas—the same places he'd held so dear—in hopes he'd never forget the layout. Sirius' jaw, angular and sharp; his hands, delicate and pale; his chest, slim and chiseled.

Remus breathed heavily, merely saying, "I thought I'd lost you."

Sirius, understanding the implications of this declaration, purely nodded, taking Remus' hands in his. "Me, too."

The heat from his body, surreal, wrapped around Remus' skin, and he shuddered. None of it seemed real; Remus was terrified of it all turning to dust before him. In a moment, Sirius would fade into the sheets, leaving behind no trace—no memory, no legacy. The apartment would blur into images of heartache and emptiness, the vacancy screaming at Remus' conscience.

Even so close, so warm and so tender, Remus was frightened of holding on too tight.

"Are we dreaming," Sirius asked, thick brows knitting together with concern.

"I don't know. Probably."

"Are you real?" Sirius asked, softer this time.

Knowing that they needed this, knowing that this had been a figment of his imagination, Remus played along with his heart's games. "Yes."

Sirius frowned; he knew of Remus' apprehension, at least this ghost did. Remus let his head fall, resting it against Sirius' breast. The soft beat of his heart lulled his hesitations, and Remus made his mind steady. If it had all been a dream, if it had all been for naught, he promised himself a moment longer with him. The images that had been muddied with time and tears were returning to him; the memories he thought gone made their presence known yet again. This time, the pleasant ones came as well—a much-needed gift.

"I miss you," Remus murmured, unable to look into his lover's eyes.

"Ditto," Sirius said, hands cupping Remus' jaw.

Remus wondered how long his sanity would allow him to stay here in Sirius' arms, wasting away the day in bed as they'd done so often. Would night ever come? Had the world stopped spinning? On the surface, he convinced himself that whatever consequences accompanied the choice, staying in this niche in time with him had been worth it. So, what if James missed him? So, what if his mother lived alone? For the first time in nearly two years, Remus felt the tendons in his chest mending—slowly, yes, but mending, nonetheless.

He was tired of hurting, tired of wanting. Everything he'd ever wanted had been planted in his hands, pressed against his chest. The comfort of this moment trumped the anguish felt in those past months. He decided then that he would stay, just for one more minute.

"Promise me you'll come back," Sirius finally spoke, breaking the comfortable silence between them.

Remus glanced at him, their eyes locking. They sent him an unspoken message, a plead of some sort. Sirius needed this just as much as Remus, or perhaps it had been his mind convincing him as such. This whole ruse was an act comprised of his sick, feeble mind, and deep down, he knew that none of this had been real. Yet, it was much easier, and far more welcoming, to believe that they shared this wavelength. He would visit, he promised (mostly himself), and he would always come with love.

Always with love.

•─────⋅ ⋅─────•

_Godric's Hollow, May 1982_

Remus stirred on the couch; his eyes drooped, heavy with sleep. A burning surge of pain ran down his arm, ending with a tremor in his fingertips. So, that hadn't been fixed. With a gentle hand, he adjusted Harry by his side. His eyes needn't be open to know that the tot had been slumped over with exhaustion. Lily would kill him if he stunted her son's growth. Sleep was all that mattered; both were dog tired after the day they'd sported. After his trip to the dream world, Remus couldn't drift back. The path had been erased from his mind; the trail was hidden. It turned his mood sour.

Years ago, Remus stopped wondering how he ended up places after a battle. It did no good for his mind or his heart, and worrying about things he couldn't control was terrible for his blood pressure. Through the hazy ins and outs of consciousness, he'd concluded someone had brought him to the Potter's to rest. Who, exactly? He couldn't tell you.

Truthfully, Remus hadn't wanted to wake up. Even with the threat of Voldemort and Death Eaters, the unknown condition of James and Lily looming around the corner, he'd wanted to spend just a second longer with Sirius—this figment of Sirius' he'd concocted in his grief. Still, his wand was by his side, carefully hidden by the fold of his jacket in case. There'd been no surprise appearances, no busted doors, or billowing magic. All had been quiet at Godric's Hollow. Remus hadn't been awake long enough to draw any conclusions, but he assumed it would be for the remainder of the night.

•─────⋅ ⋅─────•

Remus glanced at his watch. 4:12. It had been almost three days since he'd last seen or heard from Lily and James. Their bodies, lifeless on the floor of Headquarters, plagued his conscience. In the depths of his mind, something tried to convince him that they'd been at Hogwarts during the battle with Peter and Voldemort. Their voices, distorted and odd as they sounded, were present, so he thought.

It was difficult even to process the events that had transpired. His heart implored him to regain his hope—to deploy whatever optimism he'd left in his bitter heart—and believe that they were okay; to trust that Dumbledore and Moody had done their best to protect James and Lily.

Even so, his brain begged to differ. Death Eaters were ruthless, tactful villains. Remus doubted that Lucius showed them any mercy; there'd been a fraction of his mind, the weak little runt that always got the better of him, that gave Malfoy the benefit of the doubt. That tiny sliver of enthusiasm would be the death of him, he knew.

Trying not to worry himself with 'what-if's,' Remus forced himself to think of other things. Anything else but the possibilities of the afternoon.

•─────⋅ ⋅─────•

The sun had peeked over the horizon, shadows cast by different homes and trees, and the birds chirped madly. Harry didn't seem to notice nature's ruckus and continued sleeping through the noise. Remus admired Harry's ability to sleep through an alien invasion; hardly anything roused him from his slumber, aside from needing a bit to eat. Remus remembered his mother telling him he'd been like that as a boy—assured and oblivious. He couldn't imagine himself as such.

There hadn't been a word from anyone in almost a week, and Remus was growing restless. It showed in his leg bouncing and nail-biting, both being nasty habits he was unable to rid himself of. His fingers were bloody stumps by mid-day, the pressure of exposed nerves making him sensitive to the touch. The Potter's owl had been missing from its perch in the backyard, and what phone could he reach them on?

It was a painful waiting game that was slowly driving him mad.

•─────⋅ ⋅─────•

Remus was carefully considering their options. It had been almost two weeks since the attack; two weeks since he'd last heard from anyone in the Order. James and Lily detested the Prophet—the only source from the wizarding world Remus could depend on for news. Muggle magazines were a decent distraction, but he couldn't rely on the television or any mail to feed him the scoop he desperately needed to hear. The owl still had not returned, and, being the Secret Keeper of Godric's Hollow, Remus seriously doubted that anyone other than the Potter's themselves would show up on the doorstep.

His nerves were getting the better of him; doubts flooded the foreground of his mind. What if they'd been killed? The thought sent jagged spikes through his chest, and his breathing faltered. Surely, someone would've contacted him by now. Dumbledore was a prick, no doubt, but he wouldn't force Remus to mull over in agony, would he? He wouldn't do that!

"What do you think, Haz," Remus finally mused, turning to face the toddler.

Harry, thinking that Mum and Dad were on a little vacation, piddled with his toys as children do. His words were jumbled and incoherent, a few recognizable phrases jumping out of the dark here and there. Otherwise, Harry had been wholly absorbed in his own little world. Somehow, amid the uproar, Harry had acquired a nasty little scar on his forehead. For the first few days, it bled and throbbed, causing Harry a great deal of discomfort. Lucky for Remus, Lily was prepared for anything. A few ointments and a band-aid later, the crying stopped. Part of Remus was thankful for this; the last thing he needed was a frightened, fussy baby on his plate. That would've been the fucking topper.

It needed to be checked, however. No matter how many creams or ointments he'd applied, it grew darker and more irritated. Harry fussed over it momentarily, sniffling and pouting as he did best, but Remus worried. Not to mention, his shoulder had clearly gotten infected. If he was going off the violent, puss filled cysts growing out of the wound, and the deadened sensation in his fingertips, a Healer would be recommended before thinking of anything else.

If he lost his arm, Sirius would kill him.

Harry babbled, random consonants pouring out of his mouth.

"I think that's a good plan," Remus nodded, pacing the floor in front of him. "We should go to Mungo's and see what we can do. Such a smart boy."

He smiled down at Harry, silently praising him for nothing in particular. It had been a foolish, reckless plan, of course, and it could've ended in nothing but tragedy, but Remus had never been famous for thinking things through. At least not lately. He was driven up a wall with anxiety and caution. Knowing that the Potter's were simply alive and okay might have soothed the hole in his chest.

Here's for hoping.


	20. Panic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Sometimes, people don't want to hear the truth because they don't want their illusions destroyed."_
> 
> _-via_ Friedrich Nietzsche

_St. Mungo's, May 1982_

Remus had never been too fond of hospitals, and considering he'd spent most of his life in one—from his monthly affliction to broken noses to pregnancies to the most recent psychotic break—he could draw that conclusion with utmost certainty and confidence. St. Mungo's especially rubbed him the wrong way; it reminded him a bit of walking down a secluded alley just past midnight. It wasn't the place itself that brought mites into his bones or goose pimples across his arms; instead, it was the smell and the aura. The people who lingered in corners, wailing or sleeping—perhaps they were dead.

Fluorescent lights above him flickered, casting shadows across the floor. They danced among each other's strewn limbs, limp and non-committal to their forms. The dampness in his eyelashes, a starchy mixture of dried blood and salty tears, weighed down his eyelids; his gaze lingered on the vacancy in his arms, the indentations where Harry had slept and sobbed for hours on end as they waited. Despite the little one's absence, Remus's arms felt heavy with grief and exhaustion. His wound, throbbing from the lack of medical attention and strain, oozed with liquids he could no longer identify. Puss? Blood? Water?

Dull aches inched through his bones, tugging at the weary joints and provoking groans at every wince. The waiting room chairs were never meant for such a wait, let alone a comfortable nap. With his head hanging farther than Dumbledore's beard, it was a wonder his neck hadn't snapped in two. It felt like it wanted to; Remus struggled to muster the energy to lift his head and scan his surroundings, to mark the doors for the seventy-third time within the hour. Had it been an hour? Perhaps two?

Time was a puzzle that he didn't even endeavor to understand anymore. Whatever happened would happen, and if that meant living this terrible train wreck of reality for a moment more, then so be it. However, if this was his arduous journey to heaven or hell—the latter more likely—he'd like his maker to hurry up the process. He'd needed to take a piss for ages, but his legs refused to function correctly.

"Moo Moo," Harry called, his voice fluffy and distant. It echoed in the confines of the waiting room and his skull.

Whether it was from dehydration or the agony, maybe even exhaustion, it hurt. Remus' eyes screwed shut as he forced the reverberations of Harry's howling to silence. It had been worse than the hangovers in '81. Remus felt nauseous as if his body were being jolted at sea.

"Quiet, Hazza," he mumbled.

"Moomy," he heard, though the voice was louder this time. Not any closer or tangible, but just loud enough to cause a rattle in his ears.

"Harry," he growled, "I said enough!"

What little patience Remus had left in his heart had been worn thin those last few days; all of the aimless anticipation and confusion, the abandonment and grief—he was on his last straw! He knew the boy meant no harm, but he was close to wringing his neck. The pain in his shoulder burned brightly; sharp, jagged torture that only seemed to worsen with every breath. It wasn't until the incessant crying began that it roused from lethargy. The smell of green apples wafted in his nose, the hint of cigarette trailing closely behind.

"Remus," a woman cried out. "Remus, wake up! Please."

The fog that covered his conscience muffled the cries for help. Something inside of him was familiar with her. He was inclined to her voice and wanted nothing more than to heed her calls blindly. She was frantic, whoever she was, and begged him to lift his head. For God knows how long, she shouted at him. Harry's weeping acted as a backtrack, his hiccups jerking Remus from a nodding nap.

Yet, there was nothing inside him that could. Not one ounce of energy, courage, hope, or love—nothing remained in Remus Lupin. With his shoulders slumped and frost-white fingers, he lingered in the overwhelmingly uncomfortable chair in shifting realities.

What part of this was real? If none of it was, when would he return to his world, if at all?

Perhaps this was death—this uncomfortable, stuffy moment in limbo he'd been wading through for what felt like hours. He'd always imagined it differently, something with a bit more finesse. Remus had always teetered on the fine line of an honorable death versus a peaceful one. Death in battle, on the front lines protecting the innocent, or in his sleep during the early hours of a Sunday morning.

This, he thought bitterly, must have been the proper decent to demise. Agonizingly slow and dull, with no one to hold your hand or whisper kind words. Fitting in a way. After all, we come into this world alone; it's only fair that we exit the same way. Despite that, it would've been nice to hear Lily's laughter just once more, or maybe the guffaw of James. Remus didn't doubt that a final slobbery kiss from Harry would've solidified his peace.

But he didn't have a choice in this matter. There was nothing to do but wait till exhaustion took over his bones and slip into weary darkness.

•─────⋅ ⋅─────•

_St. Mungo's, May 1982_

Lily paced the tiled floor, her heels clicking out of sync with her racing heart. A mixture of sweat and blood clouded her left eye, a dull sting pulsing ever so slightly with every blink. The gash across her forehead had been tended to by a nearby healer; the injuries she'd sustained were minor in comparison to the rest. They needed medical attention, not her.

James and Remus needed medical attention, not her.

And yet, the healers pestered her with inappropriate, meddling questions about the events of the day as if they mattered. All of her own questions were disregarded, impishly ignored as they treated her wounds. She was left just as disconnected from the world as she had been when lying on the floor of their headquarters hours before. It was only a matter of time before the Auror's arrived, stealing her away from her husband and child, to inquire about the attack.

As if it mattered. Of course, Lily knew how important it was to report the incident. They'd defied this so-called Dark Lord, vexing him with an impromptu escape to Hogwarts—the only place in the world that Voldemort and his goonies were outnumbered. Still, after seeing the condition of Remus alone, she knew there were far more crucial things to be worried about than making some silly statement to be filed away on record.

Sick of wasting away in the corridor, Lily strode toward the nurse's station. If they didn't give her the answers she asked for, she would demand them.

No older than her own mother, a woman scribbled away on a scroll with furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips. Not at all intimidated by her glaring expression, Lily approached fiercely.

"I would like to speak with my husband's healer," she said.

The nurse, clearly unimpressed with the introduction, hardly glanced up from her busy work to assess a disheveled Lily Potter. In a matter of two seconds, the once over laced with daggers had disappeared and settled back on the paper below her.

"Unfortunately, Mrs. Potter, Healer Finley is unable to attend to you," she droned.

Lily wasn't satisfied in the slightest, furthering her determination and annoyance.

"I want to know how my family is doing," she demanded, shifting her weight to lean on the counter. A splitting headache was on the way—one that no potion could reduce. Only time and a bit of rest would mend it.

"Once Healer Finley has returned from his lunch," the woman sighed, dipping her quill in ink, "he will see you. For the time being, please return to the waiting area."

Lily had been floored. After an attack lead by one of the most dangerous wizards known to man was made on her infant son and husband, the best Healer St. Mungo's could provide was taking his lunch? She felt her fists tense, her nails tearing through the callouses on her palms. Anger couldn't scratch the surface of her resolve. No. It had been unbridled rage and disbelief that the lives of her boys were thrown so haphazardly to the side for a bit of tea and a biscuit.

This wouldn't do, she decided. Not at all.

With red tinted cheeks and dry eyes, she snapped, "I demand to speak to the Head of the Hospital. Now."

The nurse, previously uninterested in anything Lily Potter had to say, let her glare settle on her. Even with a demand of that scope, with a woman on her last frayed nerve breathing so raggedly in front of her, the nurse merely scoffed.

"Just a moment, Mrs. Potter," she sneered, hobbling down a corridor and disappearing around a corner.

As soon as she was sure the nurse had been gone, Lily made a break for the ward doors. A group of Healers muttered amongst themselves near a water station, unbothered by her presence. A few gave her a passing glance but remained encapsulated by the latest conversation about some new treatment for Devil's Snare. Using this golden opportunity, she slipped through soundlessly, ensuring the click of the lock had been muted at best.

Lily was well aware of James' condition from the start. A mild concussion and pulmonary laceration. Whatever spell Malfoy and his croons had cast on them, it had done a number on her husband, but nothing to kill him. Muggle medicine could quickly mend the tissue; Lily had no doubt that magical healing could get the job done just as well. And poor Harry was being assessed by a pediatric healer just down the hall. They found him in Remus' arms in Hogwarts' hallways with a few scratches and bruises—nothing fatal.

But Remus… It was decided. No matter the cost nor the consequences, Lily was going to ensure Remus' safety. She couldn't lose someone else. She wouldn't lose someone else.

Dumbledore had tried for minutes to bring her friend back to consciousness; alas, nothing had worked. Not his smelling salts or a bit of pepper up potion. Nothing. Remus had sustained deadly injuries, nothing like Lily had ever seen before. It was only for a moment that he blabbered on about Godric's Hollow and Voldemort—incoherent nonsense that gargled within his throat. She'd never gotten queasy at the sight of blood or tissue, but Remus' shoulder gave her a run for her money. Out of their motley crew, her worries for him were jumping with each passing moment. Without a Healer to tend to the shoulder wound, an infection would soon set in.

Whatever she'd learned from Professor Sprout would have to be enough. Lily thought herself brave enough to tend to RemRemus'oulder before an infection set in. She thought herself brave enough to duel some of the most adept dark wizards of her generation. Hell, she was brave enough to birth her son during SSirius'Sirius'Yet, she was not sure if she was brave enough to swallow the uncertainty of her actions. Would this even help? Had an infection already spread?

Remus' door hung ajar just enough for her snooping eyes to scan his surroundings. It must've been early morning; the birds chirped at the blankness of his curtains from the other side of the window, yet no sunlight spilled onto the floor.

"Who the fuck takes a lunch this late," she hissed, locking herself in with Remus.

He looked God awful. The poor man was pale and skinny enough, to begin with, but this shell of a man left Lily with a residual swarm of guilt in her stomach. Remus' chest looked boney and weak, rising and falling softly despite the whistle in his nostrils; a broken nose, Lily deduced. His body's parts were carefully bandaged and treated, excluding the shoulder, and the blood clots forming under his eyes were reduced by the minute.

"Oh, Moony," she whispered, reaching up to stroke what had once been long, tawny hair. All that was left was a smooth stubble and stitching.

Lily never meant for any of this to happen. She never meant to mother "The Chosen One," and while it would've done her conscience some good to vent all of these feelings unbeknownst to her closest friend, Remus needed medical attention.

Lily prepared herself for the worst but prayed for the better as she began working on his shoulder.

•─────⋅ ⋅─────•

Nearly an hour had gone by when Healer Finley decided to stop by Remus' room; Lily had finished just before and was vigorously washing her hands in the joint restroom. No matter how hard she scrubbed, she just couldn't seem to get the red stains out from her skin and nails. A sweat had broken on her forehead; the strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail were pasted to her skin, leaving her aggravated and itchy.

Still, she scrubbed. With a towel, a brush—she even tried a cleaning spell Alice had taught her. Her chest tightened; nevertheless, she persisted. What had her mother once told her about blood? Or was it Petunia? Warm water sets the stains… right? Lily's memories seemed like jumbled, incoherent sequences scattered across her eyelids, the participants acting only as placeholders as garbled conversation floated around idly. What kind of water removes blood stains?

She needed to know! Without a second thought, Lily raised the water's temperature, ignoring the steam bubbling in the sink. She cried out, her skin scorched and the bloody mess still proud in front of her. A panic set in; her lungs constricted. Using her nails, Lily began scratching away at the skin of her palms at an alarming rate. The calloused skin from years of work peeled away, washing down the drain with red water.

Tears clouded her vision, and her throat burned with shallow, unfulfilling breaths.

"Come on," she grunted, adding pressure to her scraping.

Lily could hardly recognize herself as the image warped beneath the stream of water leaking from the faucet. The water within the sink was now tinted red, leaving a distorted reflection glaring at her. Two bloody palm prints had been stamped onto the porcelain sink as she held herself upright. The world around her swayed and spun; she tried to steady her breathing, but she couldn't get these thoughts out of her head.

How many of them had to die before the war stopped? How many friends must she have lost before reparations began? Lily couldn't take the pressure of all of this; she had a son and a husband to think of! She didn't want to die.

Yet something inside of her brain, perhaps a parasite planted by the Dark Lord himself, kept whispering terrible things in her ears. An impending sense of doom had resided in her, and she wept. Sliding down the door onto the cold floor, bloodied palms and sweaty forehead, Lily sobbed into her arms. Never before had she wished death over temporary pain? But this—this frantic, depressed mass swallowing her insides with guilt and shame—was agonizing. When would it end?

_Never._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Well, hello everyone! I am so sorry for my hiatus. Switching from on-campus learning to remote (as someone who has ADHD) really fucked with me last semester. I also worked full-time, so if I wasn't working, I was doing school work, and if not either of those, probably sleeping. I know I've been dropping hints at this chapter forever; I'm sorry it took so long. I've had a major case of like… writer's laziness. It just never felt like the right time to write lol. I'm glad I could get this one updated though._
> 
> _Really quick! For all of you who've come from Mischief Managed, the reason why old chapters keep getting published is because I'm editing the first book while I wait for my writer's muse to return (although it seems like it has now)._
> 
> _A life update: I met a dude on Tinder—which I downloaded as a joke last year—and I have come to the realization that I have met someone I consider a soulmate LMAO. It's so cringey and corny to say, but like this man loves me in a way no one has loved me before. That being said, I am moving in with him at the end of February. Hopefully by then, I'll have a better schedule in place and I can make more time for you guys._
> 
> _Now when I write about Wolfstar, I can write from experience lol._
> 
> _I hope you all are doing well; #BidenHarris2020 fuck yeah. I've missed you so much._
> 
> Until the very end,
> 
> -Nic.


End file.
